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Jibe }6n0lt6b 
ComeDie Ibumaine 


CASTLE RACKRENT 

AND 

THE ABSENTEE 


BY 

MARIA EDGEWORTH 


Zbc jenglisb 
Comebie Ibumaine 

Masterpieces of the great 
English novelists in which 
are portrayed the varying 
aspects of English life from 
the time of Addison to the 
present day : a series anal- 
ogous to that in which 
Balzac depicted the man- 
ners and morals of his 
French contemporaries. 


^be jensUeb Com^bie Ibumatnc 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


BY 

MARIA EDGEWORTH 

lx 



NEW YORK 

Cbe Centur? Co. 

1905 


4 



LIBRARY Of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

NOV 1 1906 

^ Copyright Entry 

/, 7(1 u 

CLASS A XXc., No. 
COPY B. ' 


Copyright, 1903, by 
The Century Co. 


Published, October, ig 03 



4k 


PUBLISHERS’ NOTE 


Maria Edgeworth, famous as a delineator of Irish character, 
was of English birth, though of Irish descent, being born at Black 
Bourton in Oxfordshire in 1 767. Her early education also was Eng- 
lish ; but in her sixteenth year her father returned to Ireland to 
reside, taking her with him, and thereafter her home was at 
Edgeworthtown in County Longford, where she died in 1849. 
She is perhaps even better known as a writer of stories for children 
— stories which have retained in large measure their popularity — 
than as a novelist. 

Her most notable tale was also the first published— “ Castle 
Rackrent,” issued in 1800— a story based upon facts, and depicting 
the manners and methods of the Irish squire of the middle of 
the eighteenth century. It at once became famous and has be- 
come established among the masterpieces of fiction. It abounds 
in wit, graphic narration, and keen insight into the Irish national 
character. “ It is a page torn from the national history of Ireland, 
inimitable, perennially delightful, equally humorous and pathetic, 
holding up with shrewd wit and keen perception ” both the follies 
and the virtues which have made that history what it has been. 
Among her later works, the most important are the “ Tales from 
Fashionable Life,” among which is “ The Absentee,” published in 
1812. Each of these tales— which have been regarded as the ear- 
liest examples of “ the novel with a purpose ” — was written to en- 
force a moral, but they are not the less charming for their didac- 
ticism. “ The Absentee,” in particular, is a masterpiece worthy 
to be placed beside “ Castle Rackrent.” 



PREFACE 


The prevailing taste of the public for anecdote has been 
censured and ridiculed by critics who aspire to the charac- 
ter of superior wisdom ; but if we consider it in a proper 
point of view, this taste is an incontestable proof of the 
good sense and profoundly philosophic temper of the 
present times. Of the numbers who study, or at least 
who read history, how few derive any advantage from their 
labours! The heroes of history are so decked out by 
the fine fancy of the professed historian ; they talk in such 
measured prose, and act from such sublime or such dia- 
bolical motives, that few have sufficient taste, wickedness, 
or heroism, to sympathise in their fate. Besides, there is 
much uncertainty even in the best authenticated ancient or 
modern histories; and that love of truth, which in some 
minds is innate and immutable, necessarily leads to a love 
of secret memoirs and private anecdotes. We cannot judge 
either of the feelings or of the characters of men with per- 
fect accuracy, from their actions or their appearance in 
public; it is from their careless conversations, their half- 
finished sentences, that we may hope with the greatest 
probability of success to discover their real characters. 
The life of a great or of a little man written by himself, 
the familiar letters, the diary of any individual published 
by his friends or by his enemies, after his decease, are 
esteemed important literary curiosities. We are surely 
justified, in this eager desire, to collect the most minute 
facts relative to the domestic lives, not only of the great 
and good, but even of the worthless and insignificant, since 
it is only by a comparison of their actual happiness or 
misery in the privacy of domestic life that we can form a 


PREFACE 


just estimate of the real reward of virtue, or the real pun- 
ishment of vice. That the great are not as happy as they 
seem, that the external circumstances of fortune and rank 
do not constitute felicity, is asserted by every moralist: 
the historian can seldom, consistently with his dignity, 
pause to illustrate this truth; it is therefore to the bio- 
grapher we must have recourse. After we have beheld 
splendid characters playing their parts on the great theatre 
of the world, with all the advantages of stage effect and 
decoration, we anxiously beg to be admitted behind the 
scenes, that we may take a nearer view of the actors and 
actresses. 

Some may perhaps imagine that the value of biography 
depends upon the judgment and taste of the biographer; 
but on the contrary it may be maintained, that the merits 
of a biographer are inversely as the extent of his intellectual 
powers and of his literary talents. A plain unvarnished 
tale is preferable to the most highly ornamented narrative. 
Where we see that a man has the power, we may naturally 
suspect that he has the will to deceive us ; and those who 
are used to literary manufacture know how much is often 
sacrificed to the rounding of a period, or the pointing of 
an antithesis. 

That the ignorant may have their prejudices as well as 
the learned cannot be disputed; but we see and despise 
vulgar errors : we never bow to the authority of him who 
has no great name to sanction his absurdities. The par- 
tiality which blinds a biographer to the defects of his hero, 
in proportion as it is gross, ceases to be dangerous ; but if 
it be concealed by the appearance of candour, which men 
of great abilities best know how to assume, it endangers 
our judgment sometimes, and sometimes our morals. If 
her Grace the Duchess of Newcastle, instead of penning 
her lord’s elaborate eulogium, had undertaken to write the 
life of Savage, we should not have been in any danger of 
mistaking an idle, ungrateful libertine for a man of genius 

viii 


PREFACE 


and virtue. The talents of a biographer are often fatal to 
his reader. For these reasons the public often judiciously 
countenance those who, without sagacity to discriminate 
character, without elegance of style to relieve the tedious- 
ness of narrative, without enlargement of mind to draw 
any conclusions from the facts they relate, simply pour 
forth anecdotes, and retail conversations, with all the 
minute prolixity of a gossip in a country town. 

The author of the following Memoirs has upon these 
grounds fair claims to the public favour and attention ; he 
was an illiterate old steward, whose partiality to the family ^ 
in which he was bred and born, must be obvious to the 
reader. He tells the history of the Rackrent family in his 
vernacular idiom, and in the full confidence that Sir Patrick, 
Sir Murtagh, Sir Kit, and Sir Condy Rackrent’s affairs will 
be as interesting to all the world as they were to himself. 
Those who were acquainted with the manners of a certain 
class of the gentry of Ireland some years ago, will want no 
evidence of the truth of honest Thady’s narrative ; to those 
who are totally unacquainted with Ireland, the following 
Memoirs will perhaps be scarcely intelligible, or probably 
they may appear perfectly incredible. For the information 
of the ignorant English reader, a few notes have been sub- 
joined by the editor, and he had it once in contemplation 
to translate the language of Thady into plain English ; but 
Thady’s idiom is incapable of translation, and, besides, the 
authenticity of his story would have been more exposed 
to doubt if it were not told in his own characteristic man- 
ner. Several years ago he related to the editor the history 
of the Rackrent family, and it was with some difficulty that 
he was persuaded to have it committed to writing; how- 
ever, his feelings for ''the honour of the family f as he ex- 
pressed himself, prevailed over his habitual laziness, and he 
at length completed the narrative which is now laid before 
the public. 

The editor hopes his readers will observe that these are 


* ix 


PREFACE 


“tales of other times “ ; that the manners depicted in the 
following pages are not those of the present age ; the race 
of the Rackrents has long since been extinct in Ireland; 
and the drunken Sir Patrick, the litigious Sir Murtagh, the 
fighting Sir Kit, and the slovenly Sir Condy, are characters 
which could no more be met with at present in Ireland, 
than Squire Western or Parson Trulliber in England. 
There is a time when individuals can bear to be rallied for 
their past follies and absurdities, after they have acquired 
new habits and a new consciousness. Nations, as well as 
individuals, gradually lose attachment to their identity, 
and the present generation is amused, rather than offended, 
by the ridicule that is thrown upon its ancestors. 

Probably we shall soon have it in our power, in a hund- 
red instances, to verify the truth of these observations. 

When Ireland loses her identity by an union with Great 
Britain, she will look back, with a smile of good-humoured 
complacency, on the Sir Kits and Sir Condys of her former 
existence. 

1800. 


X 


CASTLE RACKRENT 



CASTLE RACKRENT 


Monday Morning} 

H aving, out of friendship for the family, upon whose 
estate, praised be Heaven ! I and mine have lived 
rent-free time out of mind, voluntarily undertaken 
to publish the MEMOIRS OF THE Rackrent Family, I 
think it my duty to say a few words, in the first place, con- 
cerning myself. My real name is Thady Quirk, though in 
the family I have always been known by no other than 
“Honest Thady, “ afterward,^ in the time of Sir Murtagh, 
deceased, I remember to hear them calling me “Old 
Thady,” and now I’ve come to “Poor Thady” ; for I wear 
a long greatcoat winter and summer, which is very handy, 

* See Glossary. 

^ The cloak, or mantle, as described by Thady, is of high antiquity. 
Spenser, in his View of the State of Ireland, proves that it is not, as some 
have imagined, peculiarly derived from the Scythians, but that “ most na- 
tions of the vi'orld anciently used the mantle ; for the Jews used it, as you 
may read of Elias’s mantle, etc. ; the Chaldees also used it, as you may read 
in Diodorus ; the Egyptians likewise used it, as you may read in Herodotus, 
and may be gathered by the description of Berenice in the Greek Commentary 
upon Callimachus ; the Greeks also used it anciently, as appeared by Venus’s 
mantle lined with stars, though afterward they changed the form thereof into 
their cloaks, called Pallai, as some of the Irish also use ; and the ancient 
Latins and Romans used it, as you may read in Virgil, who was a great an- 
tiquary, that Evaiider, when ^Lneas came to him at his feast, did entertain 
and feast him sitting on the ground, and lying on mantles : insomuch that he 
useth the very word mantile for a mantle — 

‘ Humi mantilia sternunt : ’ 

so that it seemeth that the mantle was a general habit to most nations, and 
not proper to the Scythians only.” 

Spenser knew the convenience of the said mantle, as housing, bedding, 
and clothing : 

“ Iren. Because the commodity doth not countervail the discommodity ; 
for the inconveniences which thereby do arise are much more many ; for it is 
a fit house for an outlaw, a meet bed for a rebel, and an apt cloak for a thief. 
First, the outlaw being, for his many crimes and villanies, banished from the 


I 


I 


CASTLE RACKRENT 

as I never put my arms into the sleeves ; they are as good 
as new, though come Holantide next I’ve had it these 
seven years: it holds on by a single button round my 
neck, cloak fashion. To look at me, you would hardly 
think “ Poor Thady” was the father of Attorney Quirk ; he 
is a high gentleman, and never minds what poor Thady 
says, and having better than fifteen hundred a year, landed 
estate, looks down upon honest Thady ; but I wash my 
hands of his doings, and as I have lived so will I die, true 
and loyal to the family. The family of the Rackrents is, I 
am proud to say, one of the most ancient in the kingdom. 
Everybody knows this is not the old family name, which 
was O’Shaughlin, related to the kings of Ireland — but that 
was before my time. My grandfather was driver to the 
great Sir Patrick O’Shaughlin, and I heard him, when I 
was a boy, telling how the Castle Rackrent estate came to 
Sir Patrick; Sir Tallyhoo Rackrent was cousin-german to 
him, and had a fine estate of his own, only never a gate 
upon it, it being his maxim that a car was the best gate. 
Poor gentleman ! he lost a fine hunter and his life, at last, 
by it, all in one day’s hunt. But I ought to bless that 
day, for the estate came straight into t/ie family, upon one 
condition, which Sir Patrick O’Shaughlin at the time took 
sadly to heart, they say, but thought better of it afterwards, 
seeing how large a stake depended upon it : that he should, 
by Act of Parliament, take and bear the surname and arms 
of Rackrent. 

Now it was that the world was to see what was in Sir 
Patrick. On coming into the estate he gave the finest 
entertainment ever was heard of in the country ; not a man 

towns and houses of honest men, and wandering in waste places, far from 
danger of law, maketh his mantle his house, and under it covereth himself 
from the wrath of Heaven, from the offence of the earth, and from the sight 
of men. When it raineth, it is his pent-house ; when it bloweth, it is his 
tent ; when it freezeth, it is his tabernacle. In summer he can wear it loose ; 
in winter he can wrap it close ; at all times he can use it ; never heavy, never 
cumbersome. Likewise for a rebel it is as serviceable ; for in this war that 
he maketh (if at least it deserves the name of war), when he still flieth from 
his foe, and lurketh in the woods (this should be black bogs) and straight 
passages, waiting for advantages, it is his bed, yea, and almost his household 
stuff.” 


2 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


could stand after supper but Sir Patrick himself, who could 
sit out the best man in Ireland, let alone the three king- 
doms itself.' He had his house, from one year’s end to 
another, as full of company as ever it could hold, and 
fuller; for rather than be left out of the parties at Castle 
Rackrent, many gentlemen, and those men of the first con- 
sequence and landed estates in the country — such as the 
O’Neills of Ballynagrotty, and the Moneygawls of Mount 
Juliet’s Town, and O’Shannons of New Town Tullyhog — 
made it their choice, often and often, when there was no 
room to be had for love nor money, in long winter nights, 
to sleep in the chicken-house, which Sir Patrick had fitted 
up for the purpose of accommodating his friends and the 
public in general, who honoured him with their company 
unexpectedly at Castle Rackrent ; and this went on I can’t 
tell you how long. The whole country rang with his praises ! 
— Long life to him ! I’m sure I love to look upon his pic- 
ture, now opposite to me ; though I never saw him, he must 
have been a portly gentleman — his neck something short, 
and remarkable for the largest pimple on his nose, which, 
by his particular desire, is still extant in his picture, said to 
be a striking likeness, though taken when young. He is 
said also to be the inventor of raspberry whisky, which is 
very likely, as nobody has ever appeared to dispute it with 
him, and as there still exists a broken punch-bowl at Castle 
Rackrent, in the garret, with an inscription to that effect — 
a great curiosity. A few days before his death he was very 
merry ; it being his honour’s birthday, he called my grand- 
father in — God bless him ! — to drink the company’s health, 
and filled a bumper himself, but could not carry it to his 
head, on account of the great shake in his hand ; on this he 
cast his joke, saying, “What would my poor father say to 
me if he was to pop out of the grave, and see me now? I 
remember when I was a little boy, the first bumper of 
claret he gave me after dinner, how he praised me for 
carrying it so steady to my mouth. Here ’s my thanks to 
him— a bumper toast. ’ ’ Then he fell to singing the favour- 
ite song he learned from his father— for the last time, poor 

* See Glossary. 

3 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


gentleman — he sung it that night as loud and as hearty as 
ever, with a chorus : 

He that goes to bed, and goes to bed sober, 

Falls as the leaves do, falls as the leaves do, and dies in 
October; 

But he that goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow, 

Lives as he ought to do, lives as he ought to do, and dies an 
honest fellow. 

Sir Patrick died that night: just as the company rose to 
drink his health with three cheers, he fell down in a sort of 
fit, and was carried off ; they sat it out, and were surprised, 
on inquiry in the morning, to find that it was all over with 
poor Sir Patrick. Never did any gentleman live and die 
more beloved in the country by rich and poor. His funeral 
was such a one as was never known before or since in the 
county ! All the gentlemen in the three counties were at 
it ; far and near, how they flocked ! my great-grandfather 
said, that to see all the women, even in their red cloaks, 
you would have taken them for the army drawn out. 
Then such a fine whillaluh!* you might have heard it to 
the farthest end of the county, and happy the man who 
could get but a sight of the hearse! But who’d have 
thought it? Just as all was going on right, through his 
own town they were passing, when the body was seized for 
debt — a rescue was apprehended from the mob; but the 
heir, who attended the funeral, was against that, for fear of 
consequences, seeing that those villains who came to serve 
acted under the disguise of the law: so, to be sure, the 
law must take its course, and little gain had the creditors 
for their pains. First and foremost, they had the curses of 
the country : and Sir Murtagh Rackrent, the new heir, in 
the next place, on account of this affront to the body, re- 
fused to pay a shilling of the debts, in which he was coun- 
tenanced by all the best gentlemen of property, and others 
of his acquaintance; Sir Murtagh alleging in all companies 
that he all along meant to pay his father’s debts of honour, 
but the moment the law was taken of him, there was an end 
* See Glossary. 

4 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


of honour to be sure. It was whispered (but none but the 
enemies of the family believe it) that this was all a sham 
seizure to get quit of the debts which he had bound him- 
self to pay in honour. 

It’s a long time ago, there’s no saying how it was, but 
this for certain, the new man did not take at all after the 
old gentleman ; the cellars were never filled after his death, 
and no open house, or anything as it used to be; the ten- 
ants even were sent away without their whisky.’^ I was 
ashamed myself, and knew not what to say for the honour 
of the family; but I made the best of a bad case, and laid 
it all at my lady’s door, for I did not like her anyhow, nor 
anybody else ; she was of the family of the Skinflints, and 
a widow ; it was a strange match for Sir Murtagh ; the people 
in the country thought he demeaned himself greatly,’ but 
I said nothing:' I knew how it was. Sir Murtagh was a 
great lawyer, and looked to the great Skinflint estate;^ 
there, however, he overshot himself ; for though one of the 
co-heiresses, he was never the better for her, for she out- 
lived him many’s the long day — he could not see that to be 
sure when he married her. I must say for her, she made 
him the best of wives, being a very notable, stirring wo- 
man, and looking close to everything. But I always sus- 
pected she had Scotch blood in her veins ; anything else 
I could have looked over in her, from a regard to the family. 
She was a strict observer, for self and servants, of Lent, 
and all fast-days, but not holidays. One of the maids 
having fainted three times the last day of Lent, to keep 
soul and body together, we put a morsel of roast beef into 
her mouth, which came from Sir Murtagh’s dinner, who 
never fasted, not he; but somehow or other it unfortun- 
ately reached my lady’s ears, and the priest of the parish 
had a complaint made of it the next day, and the poor girl 
was forced, as soon as she could walk, to do penance for it, 
before she could get any peace or absolution, in the house 
or out of it. However, my lady was very charitable in her 
own way. She had a charity school for poor children, 
where they were taught to read and write gratis, and where 

* See Glossary. ’ 


5 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


they were kept well to spinning gratis for my lady in re- 
turn ; for she had always heaps of duty yarn from the ten- 
ants, and got all her household linen out of the estate from 
first to last; for after the spinning, the weavers on the 
estate took it in hand for nothing, because of the looms 
my lady’s interest could get from the Linen Board to dis- 
tribute gratis. Then there was a bleach-yard near us, and 
the tenant dare refuse my lady nothing, for fear of a law- 
suit Sir Murtagh kept hanging over him about the water- 
course. With these ways of managing, ’tis surprising how 
cheap my lady got things done, and how proud she was of 
it. Her table the same way, kept for next to nothing; 
duty fowls, and duty turkeys, and duty geese,’ came as fast 
as we could eat ’em, for my lady kept a sharp look-out, 
and knew to a tub of butter everything the tenants had, all 
round. They knew her way, and what with fear of driving 
for rent and Sir Murtagh’s lawsuits, they were kept in such 
good order, they never thought of coming near Castle 
Rackrent without a present of something or other — no- 
thing too much or too little for my lady — eggs, honey, but- 
ter, meal, fish, game, grouse, and herrings, fresh or salt, all 
went for something. As for their young pigs, we had 
them, and the best bacon and hams they could make up, 
with all young chickens in spring; but they were a set of 
poor wretches, and we had nothing but misfortunes with 
them, always breaking and running away. This, Sir Mur- 
tagh and my lady said, was all their former landlord Sir 
Patrick’s fault, who let ’em all get the half-year’s rent into 
arrear ; there was something in that to be sure. But Sir 
Murtagh was as much the contrary way ; for let alone 
making English tenants® of them, every soul, he was always 
driving and driving, and pounding and pounding, and cant- 
ing® and canting, and replevying and replevying, and he 
made a good living of trespassing cattle ; there was always 
some tenant’s pig, or horse, or cow, or calf, or goose, tres- 
passing, which was so great a gain to Sir Murtagh, that he 
did not like to hear me talk of repairing fences. Then his 
heriots and duty-work * brought him in something, his turf 
^ See Glossary. * Ibid. ^ Ibid. ^Ibid. 


6 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


was cut, his potatoes set and dug, his hay brought home, 
and, in short, all the work about his house done for no- 
thing ; for in all our leases there were strict clauses heavy 
with penalties, which Sir Murtagh knew well how to en- 
force; so many days’ duty-work of man and horse, from 
every tenant, he was to have, and had, every year; and 
when a man vexed him, why, the finest day he could pitch 
on, when the cratur was getting in his own harvest, or 
thatching his cabin. Sir Murtagh made it a principle to call 
upon him and his horse; so he taught ’em all, as he said, 
to know the law of landlord and tenant, "^s for law, I be- 
lieve no man, dead or alive, ever loved it so well as Sir Mur- 
tagh. He had once sixteen suits pending at a time, and I 
never saw him so much himself : roads, lanes, bogs, wellsi> 
ponds, eel-wires, orchards, trees, tithes, vagrants, gravel- 
pits, sandpits, dunghills, and nuisances, everything upon 
the face of the earth furnished him good matter for a suit. 
He used to boast that he hkd a lawsuit for every letter in 
the alphabet. How I used to wonder to see Sir Murtagh 
in the midst of the papers in his office! Why, he could 
hardly turn about for them. I made bold to shrug my 
shoulders once in his presence, and thanked my stars I was 
not born a gentleman to so much toil and trouble; but Sir 
Murtagh took me up short with his old proverb, “Learning 
is better than house or land.’’ Out of forty-nine suits 
which he had, he never lost one but seventeen ' ; the rest 
he gained with costs, double costs, treble costs sometimes; 
but even that did not pay. He was a very learned man in 
the law, and had the character of it ; but how it was I can’t 
tell, these suits that he carried cost him a power of money : 
in the end he sold some hundreds a year of the family 
estate ; but he was a very learned man in the law, and I 
know nothing of the matter, except having a great regard 
for the family; and I could not help grieving when he sent 
me to post up notices of the sale of the fee simple of the 
lands and appurtenances of Timoleague. ^ 

“I know, honest Thady, ’’ says he, to comfort me, “what 
I’m about better than you do; I’m only selling to get the 

* See Glossary. 

7 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


ready money wanting to carry on my suit with spirit with 
the Nugents of Carrickashaughlin. ” 

He was very sanguine about that suit with the Nugents 
of Carrickashaughlin. He couW have gained it, they say, 
for certain, had it pleased Heaven to have spared him to 
us, and it would have been at the least a plump two thou- 
sand a year in his way ; but things were ordered otherwise 
— for the best to be sure. He dug up a fairy-mount^ 
against my advice, and had no luck afterwards. Though 
a learned man in the law, he was a little too incredulous in 
other matters. I warned him that I heard the very Ban- 
shee * that my grandfather heard under Sir Patrick’s window 
a few days before his death. But Sir Murtagh thought 
nothing of the Banshee, nor of his cough, with a spitting 
of blood, brought on, I understand, by catching cold in 
attending the courts, and overstraining his chest with mak- 
ing himself heard in one of his favourite causes. He was 
a great speaker with a powerful voice ; but his last speech 
was not in the courts at all. He and my lady, though both 
of the same way of thinking in some things, and though 
she was as good a wife and great economist as you could 
see, and he the best of husbands, as to looking into his 
affairs, and making money for his family; yet I don’t know 
how it was, they had a great deal of sparring and jarring 
between them. My lady had her privy purse; and she 
had her weed ashes,” and her sealing money ^ upon the sign- 
ing of all the leases, with something to buy gloves besides ; 

‘ These fairy-mounts are called ant-hills in England. They are held in 
high reverence by the common people in Ireland. A gentleman, who in lay- 
ing out his lawn had occasion to level one of these hillocks, could not pre- 
vail upon any of his labourers to begin the ominous work. He was obliged 
to take a loy from one of their reluctant hands, and began the attack himself. 
The labourers agreed that the vengeance of the fairies would fall upon the 
head of the presumptuous mortal who first disturbed them in their retreat.* 

® The Banshee is a species of aristocratic fairy, who, in the shape of a 
little hideous old woman, has been known to appear, and heard to sing in a 
mournful supernatural voice under the windows of great houses, to warn the 
family that some of them are soon to die. In the last century every great 
family in Ireland had a Banshee, who attended regularly ; but latterly their 
visits and songs have been discontinued. * See Glossary. Ibid, 

* See Glossary. 

8 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


and, besides, again often took money from the tenants, if 
offered properly, to speak for them to Sir Murtagh about 
abatements and renewals. Now the weed ashes and the 
glove money he allowed her clear perquisites ; though once 
when he saw her in a new gown saved out of the weed 
ashes, he told her to my face (for he could say a sharp 
thing) that she should not put on her weeds before her 
husband’s death. But in a dispute about an abatement 
my lady would have the last word, and Sir Murtagh grew 
mad * ; I was within hearing of the door, and now I wish I 
had made bold to step in. He spoke so loud, the whole 
kitchen was out on the stairs.’* All on a sudden he stopped, 
and my lady too. Something has surely happened, thought 
I ; and so it was, for Sir Murtagh in his passion broke a 
blood-vessel, and all the law in the land could do nothing 
in that case. My lady sent for five physicians, but Sir 
Murtagh died, and was buried. She had a fine jointure 
settled upon her, and took herself away, to the great joy 
of the tenantry. I never said anything one way or the 
other whilst she was part of the family, but got up to see 
her go at three o’clock in the morning. 

“It’s a fine morning, honest Thady,’’ says she; “good- 
bye to ye.’’ And into the carriage she stepped, without a 
word more, good or bad, or even half-a-crown ; but I made 
my bow, and stood to see her safe out of sight for the sake 
of the family. 

Then we were all bustle in the house, which made me 
keep out of the way, for I walk slow and hate a bustle; but 
the house was all hurry-skurry, preparing for my new mas- 
ter. Sir Murtagh, I forgot to notice, had no childer®; so 
the Rackrent estate went to his younger brother, a young 
dashing officer, who came amongst us before I knew for the 
life of me whereabouts I was, in a gig or some of them 
things, with another spark along with him, and led horses, 
and servants, and dogs, and scarce a place to put any 
Christian of them into ; for my late lady had sent all the 

* See Glossary. ® 

3 Childer : this is the manner in which many of Thady’s rank, and others 
in Ireland, formerly pronounced the word children, 

9 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


feather-beds off before her, and blankets and household 
linen, down to the very knife-cloths, on the cars to Dub- 
lin, which were all her own, lawfully paid for out of her 
own money. So the house was quite bare, and my young 
master, the moment ever he set foot in it out of his gig, 
thought all those things must come of themselves, I be- 
lieve, for he never looked after anything at all, but harum- 
scarum called for everything as if we were conjurors, or he 
in a public-house. For my part, I could not bestir myself 
anyhow ; I had been so much used to my late master and 
mistress, all was upside down with me, and the new serv- 
ants in the servants’ hall were quite out of my way ; I had 
nobody to talk to, and if it had not been for my pipe and 
tobacco, should, I verily believe, have broke my heart for 
poor Sir Murtagh. 

But one morning my new master caught a glimpse of me 
as I was looking at his horse’s heels, in hopes of a word 
from him. “And is that old Thady?’’ says he, as he got 
into his gig: I loved him from that day to this, his voice 
was so like the family ; and he threw me a guinea out of 
his waistcoat-pocket, as he drew up the reins with the other 
hand, his horse rearing too ; I thought I never set my eyes 
on a finer figure of a man, quite another sort from Sir 
Murtagh, though withal, to me, a family likeness. A fine 
life we should have led, had he stayed amongst us, God 
bless him! He valued a guinea as little as any man: 
money to him was no more than dirt, and his gentleman 
and groom, and all belonging to him, the same; but the 
sporting season over, he grew tired of the place, and hav- 
ing got down a great architect for the house, and an im- 
prover for the grounds, and seen their plans and elevations, 
he fixed a day for settling with the tenants, but went off in 
a whirlwind to town, just as some of them came into the 
yard in the morning. A circular letter came next post 
from the new agent, with news that the master was sailed 
for England, and he must remit ;£'500 to Bath for his use 
before a fortnight was at an end; bad news still for the 
poor tenants, no change still for the better with them. Sir 
Kit Rackrent, my young master, left all to the agent ; and 


10 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


though he had the spirit of a prince, and lived away to the 
honour of his country abroad, which I was proud to hear of, 
what were we the better for that at home? The agent was 
one of your middlemen, ‘ who grind the face of the poor, 
and can never bear a man with a hat upon his head : he fer- 
reted the tenants out of their lives; not a week without a 
call for money, drafts upon drafts from Sir Kit ; but I laid it 
all to the fault of the agent ; for, says I, what can Sir Kit do 
with so much cash, and he a single man? But still it went. 
Rents must be all paid up to the day, and afore; no allow- 
ance for improving tenants, no consideration for those who 
had built upon their farms: no sooner was a lease out, but 
the land was advertised to the highest bidder; all the old 
tenants turned out, when they spent their substance in the 
hope and trust of a renewal from the landlord. All was 
now let at the highest penny to a parcel of poor wretches, 
who meant to run away, and did so, after taking two crops 
out of the ground. Then fining down the year’s rent came 
into fashion — anything for the ready penny ; and with all 
this and presents to the agent and the driver,® there was no 
such thing as standing it. I said nothing, for I had a re- 
gard for the family; but I walked about thinking if his 
honour Sir Kit knew all this, it would go hard with him 

’ Middlemen. — There was a class of men, termed middlemen, in Ireland, 
who took large farms on long leases from gentlemen of landed property, and 
let the land again in small portions to the poor, as under-tenants, at exor- 
bitant rents. The head landlord, as he was called, seldom saw his under- 
tenants ; but if he could not get the middleman to pay him his rent 
punctually, he went to his land, and drove the land for his rent ; that is to 
say, he sent his steward, or bailiff, or driver, to the land to seize the cattle, 
hay, corn, flax, oats, or potatoes, belonging to the under-tenants, and pro- 
ceeded to sell these for his rents. It sometimes happened that these unfor- 
tunate tenants paid their rent twice over, once to the middleman, and once to 
the head landlord. 

The characteristics of a middleman were servility to his superiors and 
tyranny towards his inferiors : the poor detested this race of beings. In 
speaking to them, however, they always used the most abject language, and 
the most humble tone and posture — “ Please your honour ; and please your 
honour's honour," they knew must be repeated as a charm at the beginning and 
end of every equivocating, exculpatory, or supplicatory sentence; and they were 
much more alert in doffing their caps to those new men than to those of what 
they call good old families. A witty carpenter once termed these middlemen 
journeymen gentlemen. ® See Glossary. ® Ibid, 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


but he’d see us righted ; not that I had anything for my 
own share to complain of, for the agent was always very 
civil to me when he came down into the country, and took 
a great deal of notice of my son Jason. Jason Quirk, 
though he be my son, I must say was a good scholar from 
his birth, and a very ’cute lad: I thought to make him a 
priest,* but he did better for himself ; seeing how he was as 
good a clerk as any in the county, the agent gave him his 
rent accounts to copy, which he did first of all for the 
pleasure of obliging the gentleman, and would take no- 
thing at all for his trouble, but was always proud to serve the 
family. By and by a good farm bounding us to the east 
fell into his honour’s hands, and my son put in a proposal 
for it: why shouldn’t he, as well as another? The pro- 
posals all went over to the master at the Bath, who know- 
ing no more of the land than the child unborn, only having 
once been out a-grousing on it before he went to England ; 
and the value of lands, as the agent informed him, falling 
every year in Ireland, his honour wrote over in all haste a 
bit of a letter, saying he left it all to the agent, and that 
he must let it as well as he could — to the best bidder, to be 
sure — and send him over £200 by return of post : with this 
the agent gave me a hint, and I spoke a good word for my 
son, and gave out in the country that nobody need bid 
against us. So his proposal was just the thing, and he a 
good tenant ; and he got a promise of an abatement in the 
rent after the first year, for advancing the half-year’s rent 
at signing the lease, which was wanting to complete the 
agent’s £200 by the return of the post, with all which my 
master wrote back he was well satisfied. About this time 
we learnt from the agent, as a great secret, how the money 
went so fast, and the reason of the thick coming of the 
master’s drafts: he was a little too fond of play; and 
Bath, they say, was no place for no young man of his for- 
tune, where there were so many of his own countrymen, 
too, hunting him up and down, day and night, who had 
nothing to lose. At last, at Christmas, the agent wrote 
over to stop the drafts, for he could raise no more money 
* See Glossary. 


12 


CASTLE RACKRENT 

on bond or mortgage, or from the tenants, or anyhow, nor 
had he any more to lend himself, and desired at the same 
time to decline the agency for the future, wishing Sir Kit his 
health and happiness, and the compliments of the season, 
for I saw the letter before ever it was sealed, when my son 
copied it. When the answer came there was a new turn in 
affairs, and the agent was turned out; and my son Jason, 
who had corresponded privately with his honour occasion- 
ally on business, was forthwith desired by his honour to 
take the accounts into his own hands, and look them over, 
till further orders. It was a very spirited letter to be sure; 
Sir Kit sent his service, and the compliments of the season, 
in return to the agent, and he would fight him with pleas- 
ure to-morrow, or any day, for sending him such a letter, 
if he was born a gentleman, which he was sorry (for both 
their sakes) to find (too late) he was not. Then, in a priv- 
ate postscript, he condescended to tell us that all would be 
speedily settled, to his satisfaction, and we should turn over 
a new leaf, for he was going to be married in a fortnight to 
the grandest heiress in England, and had only immediate 
occasion at present for £ 200 , as he would not choose to 
touch his lady’s fortune for travelling expenses home to 
Castle Rackrent, where he intended to be, wind and 
weather permitting, early in the next month ; and desired 
fires, and the house to be painted, and the new building to 
go on as fast as possible, for the reception of him and his 
lady before that time ; with several words besides in the 
letter, which we could not make out because, God bless 
him ! he wrote in such a flurry. My heart warmed to my 
new lady when I read this : I was almost afraid it was too 
good news to be true ; but the girls fell to scouring, and it 
was well they did, for we soon saw his marriage in the 
paper, to a lady with I don’t know how many tens of 
thousand pounds to her fortune : then I watched the post- 
ofifice for his landing; and the news came to my son of his 
and the bride being in Dublin, and on the way home to 
Castle Rackrent. ^We had bonfires all over the country, ex- 
pecting him down the next day, and we had his coming of 
age still to celebrate, which he had not time to do properly 

13 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


before he left the country ; therefore, a great ball was ex- 
pected, and great doings upon his coming, as it were, 
fresh to take possession of his ancestors’ estate. I never 
shall forget the day he came home; we had waited and 
waited all day long till eleven o’clock at night, and I was 
thinking of sending the boy to lock the gates, and giving 
them up for that night, when there came the carriages 
thundering up to the great hall door. I got the first sight 
of the bride; for when the carriage door opened, just as 
she had her foot on the steps, I held the flam * full in her 
face to light her, at which she shut her eyes, but I had a 
full view of the rest of her, and greatly shocked I was, for 
by that light she was little better than a blackamoor, and 
seemed crippled ; but that was only sitting so long in the 
chariot. 

“You’re kindly welcome to Castle Rackrent, my lady,” 
says I (recollecting who she was). “Did your honour hear 
of the bonfires? ” 

His honour spoke never a word, nor so much as handed 
her up the steps — he looked to me no more like himself 
than nothing at all ; I know I took him for the skeleton of 
his honour. I was not sure what to say next to one or 
t’other, but seeing she was a stranger in a foreign country, 
I thought it but right to speak cheerful to her ; so I went 
back again to the bonfires. 

“My lady,” says I, as she crossed the hall, “there would 
have been fifty times as many ; but for fear of the horses, 
and frightening your ladyship, Jason and I forbid them, 
please your honour.” 

With that she looked at me a little bewildered. 

“Will I have a fire lighted in the state-room to-night? ” 
was the next question I put to her, but never a word she 
answered ; so I concluded she could not speak a word of 
English, and was from foreign parts. The short and the 
long of it was, I couldn’t tell what to make of her; so I 
left her to herself, and went straight down to the servants’ 
hall to learn something for certain about her. Sir Kit’s 
own man was tired, but the groom set him a-talking at 

* See Glossary, 

14 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


last, and we had it all out before ever I closed my eyes that 
night. The bride might well be a great fortune — she was 
a Jewish by all accounts, who are famous for their great 
riches. I had never seen any of that tribe or nation before, 
and could only gather that she spoke a strange kind of 
English of her own, that she could not abide pork or saus- 
ages, and went neither to church or mass. Mercy upon 
his honour’s poor soul, thought I ; what will become of 
him and his, and all of us, with his heretic blackamoor at 
the head of the Castle Rackrent estate? I never slept a 
wink all night for thinking of it ; but before the servants I 
put my pipe in my mouth, and kept iny mind to myself, 
for I had a great regard for the family; and after this, 
when strange gentlemen’s servants came to the house, and 
would begin to talk about the bride, I took care to put the 
best foot foremost, and passed her for a nabob in the 
kitchen, which accounted for her dark complexion and 
everything. 

The very morning after they came home, however, I 
saw plain enough how things were between Sir Kit and my 
lady, though they were walking together arm in arm after 
breakfast, looking at the new building and the improve- 
ments. 

^ “Old Thady,’’ said my master, just as he used to do, 
“how do you do? ” 

“Very well, I thank your honour’s honour,’’ said I ; but 
I saw he was not well pleased, and my heart was in my 
mouth as I walked along after him. 

“Is the large room damp, Thady? ’’ said his honour. 

“Oh damp, your honour! how should it be but as dry 
as a bone,’’ says I, “after all the fires we have kept in it 
day and night? It’s the barrack-room ‘ your honour’s 
talking on.’’ 

“And what is a barrack-room, pray, my dear? ’’ were the 
first words I ever heard out of my lady’s lips. 

“No matter, my dear,’’ said he, and went on talking 
to me, ashamed-like I should witness her ignorance. To 
be sure, to hear her talk one might have taken her for an 

^ See Glossary. 

15 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


innocent,' for it was, “What’s this, Sir Kit? and what’s 
that. Sir Kit? ” all the way we went. To be sure. Sir Kit 
had enough to do to answer her. 

“And what do you call that. Sir Kit?” said she; “that 
— that looks like a pile of black bricks, pray. Sir Kit? ” 

‘ ‘ My turf-stack, my dear, ’ 'said my master, and bit his lip. 

Where have you lived, my lady, all your life, not to 
know a turf-stack when you see it? thought I; but I said 
nothing. Then by and by she takes out her glass, and 
begins spying over the country. 

“And what’s all that black swamp out yonder. Sir Kit? ” 
says she. 

“My bog, my dear,” says he, and went on whistling. 

“It’s a very ugly prospect, my dear,” says she. 

“You don’t see it, my dear,” says he, “for we’ve 
planted it out; when the trees grow up in summer- 
time ” says he. 

“Where are the trees,” said she, “my dear?” still look- 
ing through her glass. 

“You are blind, my dear,” says he; “what are these 
under your eyes? ” 

“These shrubs?” said she. 

“Trees,” said he. 

“Maybe they are what you call trees in Ireland, my 
dear,” said she; “but they are not a yard high, are they?” 

“They were planted out but last year, my lady,” says I, 
to soften matters between them, for I saw she was going 
the way to make his honour mad with her: “they are very 
well grown for their age, and you’ll not see the bog of Ally- 
ballycarricko’shaughlin at-all-at-all through the skreen, 
when once the leaves come out. But, my lady, you must 
not quarrel with any part or parcel of Allyballycarrick- 
o’shaughlin, for you don’t know how many hundred years 
that same bit of bog has been in the family ; we would not 
part with the bog of Allyballycarricko’shaughlin upon no 
account at all ; it cost the late Sir Murtagh two hundred 
good pounds to defend his title to it and boundaries against 
the O’Learys, who cut a road through it.” 

* See Glossary. 
i6 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


Now one would have thought this would have been hint 
enough for my lady, but she fell to laughing like one out 
of their right mind, and made me say the name of the bog 
over, for her to get it by heart, a dozen times ; then she 
must ask me how to spell it, and what was the meaning of 
it in English — Sir Kit standing by whistling all the while. 
I verily believed she laid the corner-stone of all her future 
misfortunes at that very instant ; but I said no more, only 
looked at Sir Kit. • :: 

There were no balls, no dinners, no doings ; the country 
was all disappointed — Sir Kit’s gentleman said in a whisper 
to me, it was all my lady’s own fault, because she was so 
obstinate about the cross. 

‘ ‘ What cross ? ” says I ; “ is it about her being a heretic ? ” 

“Oh, no such matter,’’ says he; “my master does not 
mind her heresies, but her diamond cross — it’s worth I 
can’t tell you how much, and she has thousands of English 
pounds concealed in diamonds about her, which she as good 
as promised to give up to my master before he married ; but 
now she won’t part with any of them, and she must take 
the consequences.’’ 

Her honeymoon, at least her Irish honeymoon, was 
scarcely well over, when his honour one morning said to 
me, “Thady, buy me a pig! ’’ and then the sausages were 
ordered, and here was the first open breaking-out of my 
lady’s troubles. My lady came down herself into the 
kitchen to speak to the cook about the sausages, and de- 
sired never to see them more at her table. Now my mas- 
ter had ordered them, and my lady knew that. The. cook 
took my lady’s part, because she never came down into the 
kitchen, and was young and innocent in housekeeping, 
which raised her pity ; besides, said she, at her own table, 
surely my lady should order and disorder what she pleases. 
But the cook soon changed her note, for my master made 
it a principle to have the sausages, and swore at her for a 
Jew herself, till he drove her fairly out of the kitchen; 
then, for fear of her place, and because he threatened that 
my lady should give her no discharge without the sausages, 
she gave up, and from that day forward always sausages, 

3 17 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


or bacon, or pig-meat in some shape or other, went up to 
table; upon which my lady shut herself up in her own 
room, and my master said she might stay there, with an 
oath: and to make sure of her, he turned the key in the 
door, and kept it ever after in his pocket. We none of us 
ever saw or heard her speak for seven years after that * : he 
carried her dinner himself. Then his honour had a great 
deal of company to dine with him, and balls in the house, 
and was as gay and gallant, and as much himself as before 
he was married ; and at dinner he always drank my Lady 
Rackrent’s good health and so did the company, and he 

^ This part of the history of the Rackrent family can scarcely be thought 
credible ; but in justice to honest Thady, it is hoped the reader will recollect 
the history of the celebrated Lady Cathcart’s conjugal imprisonment. The 
editor was acquainted with Colonel M’Guire, Lady Cathcart’s husband ; he 
has lately seen and questioned the maid-servant who lived with Colonel 
M’Guire during the time of Lady Cathcart’s imprisonment. Her ladyship 
was locked up in her own house for many years, during which period her 
husband was visited by the neighbouring gentry, and it was his regular cus- 
tom at dinner to send his compliments to Lady Cathcart, informing her that 
the company had the honour to drink her ladyship’s health, and begging to 
know whether there was anything at table that she would like to eat ? The 
answer was always, “ Lady Cathcart’s compliments, and she has everything 
she wants.” An instance of honesty in a poor Irishwoman deserves to be re- 
corded. Lady Cathcart had some remarkably fine diamonds, which she had 
concealed from her husband, and which she was anxious to get out of the 
house, lest he should discover them. She had neither servant nor friend to 
whom she could entrust them, but she had observed a poor beggar woman, 
who used to come to the house ; she spoke to her from the window of the 
room in which she was confined ; the woman promised to do what she de- 
sired, and Lady Cathcart threw a parcel containing the jewels to her. The 
poor woman carried them to the person to whom they were directed, and 
several years afterwards, when Lady Cathcart recovered her liberty, she re- 
ceived her diamonds safely. 

At Colonel M’Guire’s death her ladyship was released. The editor, within 
this year, saw the gentleman who accompanied her to England after her 
husband’s death. When she first was told of his death she imagined that the 
news was not true, and that it was told only with an intention of deceiving 
her. At his death she had scarcely clothes sufficient to cover her ; she wore 
a red wig, looked scared, and her understanding seemed stupefied ; she said 
that she .scarcely knew one human creature from another ; her imprisonment 
lasted above twenty years. These circumstances may appear strange to an 
English reader ; but there is no danger in the present times that any individual 
should exercise such tyranny as Colonel M’Guire’s with impunity, the pov^er 
being now all in the hands of Government, and there being no possibility of 
obtaining from Parliament an Act of indemnity for any cruelties. 

i8 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


sent out always a servant with his compliments to my Lady 
Rackrent, and the company was drinking her ladyship's 
health, and begged to know if there was anything at table 
he might send her, and the man came back, after the sham 
errand, with my Lady Rackrent 's compliments, and she 
was very much obliged to Sir Kit — she did not wish for 
anything, but drank the company’s health. The country, 
to be sure, talked and wondered at my lady’s being shut 
up, but nobody chose to interfere or ask any impertinent 
questions, for they knew my master was a man very apt to 
give a short answer himself, and likely to call a rnan out for 
it afterwards: he was a famous shot, had killed his man 
before he came of age, and nobody scarce dared look at 
him whilst at Bath. Sir Kit’s character was so well known 
in the country that he lived in peace and quietness ever 
after, and was a great favourite with the ladies, especially 
when in process of time, in the fifth year of her confine- 
ment, my Lady Rackrent fell ill and took entirely to her 
bed, and he gave out that she was now skin and bone, and 
could not last through the winter. In this he had two 
physicians’ opinions to back him (for now he called in two 
physicians for her), and tried all his arts to get the diamond 
cross from her on her death-bed, and to get her to make a 
will in his favour of her separate possessions ; but there she 
was too tough for him. He used to swear at her behind 
her back after kneeling to her face, and call her in the pre- 
sence of his gentleman his stiff-necked Israelite, though be- 
fore he married her that same gentleman told me he used 
to call her (how he could bring it out, I don’t know) “my 
pretty Jessica!’’ To be sure it must have been hard for 
her to guess what sort of a husband he reckoned to make 
her. When she was lying, to all expectation, on her death- 
bed of a broken heart, I could not but pity her, though she 
was a Jewish, and considering too it was no fault of hers to 
be taken with my master, so young as she was at the Bath, 
and so fine a gentleman as Sir Kit was when he courted her; 
and considering too, after all they had heard and seen of 
him as a husband, there were now no less than three ladies 
in our county talked of for his second wife, all at daggers * 

19 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


drawn with each other, as his gentleman swore, at the balls, 
for Sir Kit for their partner — I could not but think them be- 
witched, but they all reasoned with themselves that Sir Kit 
would make a good husband to any Christian but a J ewish, I 
suppose, and especially as he was now a reformed rake ; and 
it was not known how my lady’s fortune was settled in her 
will, nor how the Castle Rackrent estate was all mortgaged, 
and bonds out against him, for he was never cured of his gam- 
ing tricks ; but that was the only fault he had, God bless him ! 

My lady had a sort of fit, and it was given out that she 
was dead, by mistake : this brought things to a sad crisis 
for my poor master. One of the three ladies showed his 
letters to her brother, and claimed his promises, whilst 
another did the same. I don’t mention names. Sir Kit, 
in his defence, said he would meet any man who dared to 
question his conduct ; and as to the ladies, they must settle 
it amongst them who was to be his second, and his third, 
and his fourth, whilst his first was still alive, to his morti- 
fication and theirs. Upon this, as upon all former occa- 
sions, he had the voice of the country with him, on account 
of the great spirit and propriety he acted with. He met 
and shot the first lady’s brother : the next day he called out 
the second, who had a wooden leg, and their place of meet- 
ing by appointment being in a new-ploughed field, the 
wooden-leg man stuck fast in it. Sir Kit, seeing his situa- 
tion, with great candour fired his pistol over his head ; upon 
which the seconds interposed, and convinced the parties 
there had been a slight misunderstanding between them : 
thereupon they shook hands cordially, and went home to 
dinner together. This gentleman, to show the world how 
they stood together, and by the advice of the friends of 
both parties, to re-establish his sister’s injured reputation, 
went out with Sir Kit as his second, and carried his message 
next day to the last of his adversaries : I never saw him in 
such fin, e spirits as that day he went out — sure enough he 
was within ames-ace of getting quit handsomely of all his 
enemies ; but unluckily, after hitting the toothpick out of 
his adversary’s finger and thumb, he received a ball in a 
vital part, and was brought home, in little better than an 


20 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


hour after the affair, speechless on a hand-barrow to my 
lady. We got the key out of his pocket the first thing we 
did, and my son Jason ran to unlock the barrack- room, 
where my lady had been shut up for seven years, to ac- 
quaint her with the fatal accident. The surprise bereaved 
her of her senses at first, nor would she believe but we were 
putting some new trick upon her, to entrap her out of her 
jewels, for a great while, till Jason bethought himself of 
taking her to the window, and showed her the men bring- 
ing Sir Kit up the avenue upon the hand-barrow, which 
had immediately the desired effect ; for directly she burst 
into tears, and pulling her cross from her bosom, she kissed 
it with as great devotion as ever I witnessed, and lifting up 
her eyes to heaven, uttered some ejaculation, which none 
present heard ; but I take the sense of it to be, she returned 
thanks for this unexpected interposition in her favour when 
she had least reason to expect it. My master was greatly 
lamented : there was no life in him when we lifted him off 
the barrow, so he was laid out immediately, and “waked’' 
the same night. The country was all in an uproar about 
him, and not a soul but cried shame upon his murderer, 
who would have been hanged surely, if he could have been 
brought to his trial, whilst the gentlemen in the country 
were up about it ; but he very prudently withdrew himself 
to the Continent before the affair was made public. As 
for the young lady who was the immediate cause of the 
fatal accident, however innocently, she could never show 
her head after at the balls in the county or any place ; and 
by the advice of her friends and physicians, she was ordered 
soon after to Bath, where it was expected, if anywhere on 
this side of the grave, she would meet with the recovery of 
her health and lost peace of mind. As a proof of his great 
popularity, I need only add that there was a song made 
upon my master’s untimely death in the newspapers, which 
was in everybody’s mouth, singing up and down through 
the country, even down to the mountains, only three days 
after his unhappy exit. He was also greatly bemoaned at 
the Curragh,* where his cattle were well known; and all 
* See Glossary. 


21 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


who had taken up his bets were particularly inconsolable 
for his loss to society. His stud sold at the cant* at the 
greatest price ever known in the county ; his favourite 
horses were chiefly disposed of amongst his particular 
friends, who would give any price for them for his sake; 
but no ready money was required by the new heir, who 
wished not to displease any of the gentlemen of the neigh- 
bourhood just upon his coming to settle amongst them ; so 
a long credit was given where requisite, and the cash has 
never been gathered in from that day to this. 

But to return to my lady. She got surprisingly well after 
my master’s decease. No sooner was it known for certain 
that he was dead, than all the gentlemen within twenty 
miles of us came in a body, as it were, to set my lady at 
liberty, and to protest against her confinement, which they 
now for the first time understood was against her own con- 
sent. The ladies too were as attentive as possible, striving 
who should be foremost with their morning visits ; and they 
that saw the diamonds spoke very handsomely of them, 
but thought it a pity they were not bestowed, if it had so 
pleased God, upon a lady who would have become them 
better. All these civilities wrought little with my lady, for 
she had taken an unaccountable prejudice against the 
country, and everything belonging to it, and was so partial 
to her native land, that after parting with the cook, which 
she did immediately upon my master’s decease, I never 
knew her easy one instant, night or day, but when she was 
packing up to leave us. Had she meant to make any stay 
in Ireland, I stood a great chance of being a great favourite 
with her; for when she found I understood the weather- 
cock, she was always finding some pretence to be talking 
to me, and asking me which way the wind blew, and was it 
likely, did I think, to continue fair for England. But when 
I saw she had made up her mind to spend the rest of her 
days upon her own income and jewels in England, I con- 
sidered her quite as a foreigner, and not at all any longer 
as part of the family. She gave no vails to the servants at 
Castle Rackrent at parting, notwithstanding the old pro- 

* See Glossary. 


22 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


verb of **as rich as a Jew,” which she, being a Jewish, they 
built upon with reason. But from first to last she brought 
nothing but misfortunes amongst us ; and if it had not been 
all along with her, his honour. Sir Kit, would have been 
now alive in all appearance. Her diamond cross was, they 
say, at the bottom of it all; and it was a shame for her, 
being his wife, not to show more duty, and to have given 
it up when he condescended to ask so often for such a bit 
of a trifle in his distresses, especially when he all along 
made it no secret he married for money. But we will not 
bestow another thought upon her. This much I thought 
it lay upon my conscience to say, in justice to my poor 
master’s memory. 

’Tis an ill wind that blows nobody no good: the same 
wind that took the Jew Lady Rackrent over to England 
brought over the new heir to Castle Rackrent. 

Here let me pause for breath in my story, for though I 
had a great regard for every member of the family, yet 
without compare Sir Conolly, commonly called, for short, 
amongst his friends. Sir Condy Rackrent, was ever my 
great favourite, and, indeed, the most universally beloved 
man I had ever seen or heard of, not excepting his great 
ancestor Sir Patrick, to whose memory he, amongst other 
instances of generosity, erected a handsome marble stone 
in the church of Castle Rackrent, setting forth in large let- 
ters his age, birth, parentage, and many other virtues, 
concluding with the compliment so justly due, that “Sir 
Patrick Rackrent lived and died a monument of old Irish 
hospitality.” 


23 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


CONTINUATION OF THE MEMOIRS 

OF THE 

RACKRENT FAMILY 


HISTORY OF SIR CONOLLY RACKRENT. 

S IR CONDY RACKRENT, by the grace of God heir- 
at-law to the Castle Rackrent estate, was a remote 
branch of the family. Born to little or no fortune of 
his own, he was bred to the bar, at which, having many 
friends to push him and no mean natural abilities of his 
own, he doubtless would in process of time, if he could 
have borne the drudgery of that study, have been rapidly 
made King’s Counsel at the least; but things were dis- 
posed of otherwise, and he never went the circuit but twice, 
and then made no figure for want of a fee, and being unable 
to speak in public. He received his education chiefly in 
the college of Dublin, but before he came to years of dis- 
cretion lived in the country, in a small but slated house 
within view of the end of the avenue. I remember him, 
bare footed and headed, running through the street of 
O’Shaughlin’s Town, and playing at pitch-and-toss, ball, 
marbles, and what not, with the boys of the town, amongst 
whom my son Jason was a great favourite with him. As 
for me, he was ever my white-headed boy : often’s the time, 
when I would call in at his father’s, where I was always 
made welcome, he would slip down to me in the kitchen, 
and love to sit on my knee whilst I told him stories of the 
family and the blood from which he was sprung, and how 
he might look forward, if the then present man should die 
without childer, to being at the head of the Castle Rack- 
rent estate. This was then spoke quite and clear at random 
to please the child, but it pleased Heaven to accomplish my 
prophecy afterwards, which gave him a great opinion of 

24 


CASTLE RACKRENT 

my judgment in business. He went to a little grammar- 
school with many others, and my son amongst the rest, 
who was in his class, and not a little useful to him in his 
book-learning, which he acknowledged with gratitude ever 
after. These rudiments of his education thus completed, 
he got a-horseback, to which exercise he was ever addicted, 
and used to gallop over the country while yet but a slip of 
a boy, under the care of Sir Kit’s huntsman, who was very 
fond of him, and often lent him his gun, and took him out 
a-shooting under his own eye. By these means he became 
well acquainted and popular amongst the poor in the neigh- 
bourhood early, for there was not a cabin at which he had 
not stopped some morning or other, along with the hunts- 
man, to drink a glass of burnt whisky out of an eggshell, to 
do him good and warm his heart and drive the cold out of 
his stomach. The old people always told him he was a 
great likeness of Sir Patrick, which made him first have an 
ambition to take after him, as far as his fortune should 
allow. He left us when of an age to enter the college, and 
there completed his education and nineteenth year, for as 
he was not born to an estate, his friends thought it incumb- 
ent on them to give him the best education which could 
- be had for love or money, and a great deal of money 
consequently was spent upon him at College and Temple. 
He was very little altered for the worse by what he saw 
there of the great world, for when he came down into the 
country to pay us a visit, we thought him just the same 
man as ever — hand and glove with every one, and as far 
from high, though not without his own proper share of 
family pride, as any man ever you see. Latterly, seeing 
how Sir Kit and the Jewish lived together, and that there 
was no one between him and the Castle Rackrent estate, he 
neglected to apply to the law as much as was expected of 
him, and secretly many of the tenants and others advanced 
him cash upon his note of hand value received, promising 
bargains of leases and lawful interest, should he ever come 
into the estate. All this was kept a great secret for fear 
the present man, hearing of it, should take it into his head 
to take it ill of poor Condy, and so should cut him off for 

25 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


ever by levying a fine, and suffering a recovery to dock the 
entail/ Sir Murtagh would have been the man for that; 
but Sir Kit was too much taken up philandering to con- 
sider the law in this case, or any other. These practices I 
have mentioned to account for the state of his affairs — I 
mean Sir Condy’s upon his coming into the Castle Rack- 
rent estate. He could not command a penny of his first 
year’s income, which, and keeping no accounts, and the 
great sight of company he did, with many other causes too 
numerous to mention, was the origin of his distresses. My 
son Jason, who was now established agent, and knew every- 
thing, explained matters out of the face to Sir Conolly, and 
made him sensible of his embarrassed situation. With a 
great nominal rent-roll, it was almost all paid away in in- 
terest ; which being for convenience suffered to run on, 
soon doubled the principal, and Sir Condy was obliged to 
pass new bonds for the interest, now grown principal, and 
so on. Whilst this was going on, my son requiring to be 
paid for his trouble and many years’ service in the family 
gratis, and Sir Condy not willing to take his affairs into his 
own hands, or to look them even in the face, he gave my 
son a bargain of some acres which fell out of lease at a 
reasonable rent. Jason set the land, as soon as his lease 
was sealed, to under-tenants, to make the rent, and got 
two hundred a year profit rent ; which was little enough 
considering his long agency. He bought the land at twelve 
years’ purchase two years afterwards, when Sir Condy was 
pushed for money on an execution, and was at the same 
time allowed for his improvements thereon. There was a 
sort of hunting-lodge upon the estate, convenient to my 
son Jason’s land, which he had his eye upon about this 
time; and he was a little jealous of Sir Condy, who talked 
of setting it to a stranger who was just come into the 
country — Captain Moneygawl was the man. He was son 
and heir to the Moneygawls of Mount Juliet’s Town, who 
had a great estate in the next county to ours; and my mas- 
ter was loth to disoblige the young gentleman, whose heart 
was set upon the Lodge ; so he wrote him back that the 
* See Glossary. 

?6 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


Lodge was at his service, and if he would honour him with 
his company at Castle Rackrent, they could ride over to- 
gether some morning and look at it before signing the lease. 
Accordingly, the captain came over to us, and he and Sir 
Condy grew the greatest friends ever you see, and were 
for ever out a-shooting or hunting together, and were very 
merry in the evenings ; and Sir Condy was invited of course 
to Mount Juliet’s Town ; and the family intimacy that had 
been in Sir Patrick’s time was now recollected, and nothing 
would serve Sir Condy but he must be three times a week 
at the least with his new friends, which grieved me, who 
knew, by the captain’s groom and gentleman, how they 
talked of him at Mount Juliet’s Town, making him quite, 
as one may say, a laughing-stock and a butt for the whole 
company ; but they were soon cured of that by an accident 
that surprised ’em not a little, as it did me. There was a 
bit of a scrawl found upon the waiting-maid of old Mr. 
Moneygawl’s youngest daughter. Miss Isabella, that laid 
open the whole ; and her father, they say, was like one out 
of his right mind, and swore it was the last thing he ever 
should have thought of, when he invited my master to his 
house, that his daughter should think of such a match. 
But their talk signified not a straw, for as Miss Isabella’s 
maid reported, her young mistress was fallen over head 
and ears in love with Sir Condy from the first time that 
ever her brother brought him into the house to dinner. 
The servant who waited that day behind my master’s chair 
was the first who knew it, as he says; though it’s hard to 
believe him, for he did not tell it till a great while after- 
wards ; but, however, it’s likely enough, as the thing turned 
out, that he was not far out of the way, for towards the 
middle of dinner, as he says, they were talking of stage- 
plays, having a playhouse, and being great play-actors at 
Mount Juliet’s Town; and Miss Isabella turns short to my 
master, and says: 

“Have you seen the play-bill. Sir Condy? “ 

“No, I have not,’’ said he. 

“Then more shame for you,’’ said the captain her 
brother, “not to know that my sister is to play Juliet 

27 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


to-night, who plays it better than any woman on or off 
the stage in all Ireland.” 

“I am very happy to hear it,” said Sir Condy ; and there 
the matter dropped for the present. 

But Sir Condy all this time, and a great while after- 
wards, was at a terrible nonplus ; for he had no liking, not 
he, to stage-plays, nor to Miss Isabella either — to his mind, 
as it came out over a bowl of whisky-punch at home, his 
little Judy M ’Quirk, who was daughter to a sister’s son of 
mine, was worth twenty of Miss Isabella. He had seen 
her often when he stopped at her father’s cabin to drink 
whisky out of the eggshell, out hunting, before he came to 
the estate, and, as she gave out, was under something like 
a promise of marriage to her. Anyhow, I could not but 
pity my poor master, who was so bothered between them, 
and he an easy-hearted man, that could not disoblige no- 
body — God bless him ! To be sure, it was not his place to 
behave ungenerous to Miss Isabella, who had disobliged 
all her relations for his sake, as he remarked ; and then 
she was locked up in her chamber, and forbid to think 
of him any more, which raised his spirit, because his 
family was, as he observed, as good as theirs at any 
rate, and the Rackrents a suitable match for the Money- 
gawls any day in the year; all which was true enough. 
But it grieved me to see that, upon the strength of all 
this. Sir Condy was growing more in the mind to carry 
off Miss Isabella to Scotland, in spite of her relations, as 
she desired. 

“It’s all over with our poor Judy ! ” said I, with a heavy 
sigh, making bold to speak to him one night when he was 
a little cheerful, and standing in the servants’ hall all alone 
with me, as was often his custom. 

“Not at all, ’ ’ said he ; “I never was fonder of J udy than 
at this present speaking; and to prove it to you,” said he 
— and he took from my hand a halfpenny change that I had 
just got along with my tobacco — “and to prove it to you, 
Thady,” says he, “it’s a toss-up with me which I should 
marry this minute, her or Mr. Moneygawl of Mount Juliet’s 
Town’s daughter — so it is.” 


28 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


“Oh — boo! boo!”* says I, making light of it, to see 
what he would go on to next; “your honour’s joking, to 
be sure; there’s no compare between our poor Judy and 
Miss Isabella, who has a great fortune, they say.” 

“I’m not a man to mind a fortune, nor never was,” said 
Sir Condy, proudly, “whatever her friends may say; and 
to make short of it,” says he, “I’m come to a determina- 
tion upon the spot.” With that he swore such a terrible 
oath as made me cross myself. “And by this book,” said 
he, snatching up my ballad-book, mistaking it for my 
prayer-book, which lay in the window, — “and by this 
book,” says he, “and by all the books that ever were shut 
and opened, it’s come to a toss-up with me, and I’ll stand 
or fall by the toss ; and so Thady, hand me over that pin “ 
out of the ink-horn” ; and he makes a cross on the smooth 
side of the halfpenny; “Judy M ’Quirk,” says he, “her 
mark.”® 

God bless him ! his hand Was a little unsteadied by all 
the whisky-punch he had taken, but it was plain to see his 
heart was for poor J udy. My heart was all as one as in my 
mouth when I saw the halfpenny up in the air, but I said 
nothing at all ; and when it came down I was glad I had 
kept myself to myself, for to be sure now it was all over 
with poor Judy. 

“Judy’s out a luck,” said I, striving to laugh. 

“I’m out a luck,” said he; and I never saw a man look 
so cast down : he took up the halfpenny off the flag, and 
walked away quite sober-like by the shock. Now, though 
as easy a man, you would think, as any in the wide world, 


* Boo ! boo ! — an exclamation equivalent to pshaw or nonsense, 

® Pin, read pen . — It formerly was vulgarly pronounced pin in Ireland. 

® Her mark . — It was the custom in Ireland for those who could not write 
to make a cross to stand for their signature, as was formerly the practice of 
our English monarchs. The Editor inserts the facsimile of an Irish mark, 
which may hereafter be valuable to a judicious antiquary — 

Her 

Judy X M’Quirk, 

Mark. 

In bonds or notes signed in this manner a witness is requisite, as the name is 
frequently written by him or her. 


29 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


there was no such thing as making him unsay one of these 
sort of vows/ which he had learned to reverence when 
young, as I well remember teaching him to toss up for bog- 
berries on my knee. So I saw the affair was as good as 
settled between him and Miss Isabella, and I had no more 
to say but to wish her joy, which I did the week after- 
wards, upon her return from Scotland with my poor master. 

My new lady was young, as might be supposed of a lady 
that had been carried off by her own consent to Scotland ; 
but I could only see her at first through her veil, which, 
from bashfulness or fashion, she kept over her face. 

“And am I to walk through all this crowd of people, my 
dearest love?” said she to Sir Condy, meaning us servants 
and tenants, who had gathered at the back gate. 

“My dear,” said Sir Condy, “there’s nothing for it but 
to walk, or to let me carry you as far as the house, for you 
see the back road is too narrow for a carriage, and the great 
piers have tumbled down across the front approach; so 
there’s no driving the right way, by reason of the ruins.” 

“Plato, thou reasonest well! ” said she, or words to that 
effect, which I could noways understand; and again, when 
her foot stumbled against a broken bit of a car-wheel, she 
cried out, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” 
Well, thought I, to be sure, if she’s no Jewish, like the 
last, she is a mad woman for certain, which is as bad : it 
would have been as well for my poor master to have taken 
up with poor Judy, who is in her right mind anyhow. 

She was dressed like a mad woman, moreover, more than 
like any one I ever saw afore or since, and I could not take 
my eyes off her, but still followed behind her; and her 
feathers on the top of her hat were broke going in at the 

‘ Vows . — It has been maliciously and unjustly hinted that the lower classes 
of the people of Ireland pay but little regard to oaths ; yet it is certain that 
some oaths or vows have great power over their minds. Sometimes they 
swear they will be revenged on some of their neighbours ; this is an oath that 
they are never known to break. But, what is infinitely more extraordinary 
and unaccountable, they sometimes make and keep a vow against whisky ; 
these vows are usually limited to a short time. A woman who has a drunken 
husband is most fortunate if she can prevail upon him to go to the priest, and 
make a vow against whisky for a year, or a month, or a week, or a day, 

30 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


low back door, and she pulled out her little bottle out of 
her pocket to smell when she found herself in the kitchen, 
and said, “I shall faint with the heat of this odious, odious 
place.” 

“My dear, it’s only three steps across the kitchen, and 
there’s a fine air if your veil was up,” said Sir Condy ; and 
with that threw back her veil, so that I had then a full sight 
of her face. She had not at all the colour of one going to 
faint, but a fine complexion of her own, as I then took it 
to be, though her maid told me after it was all put on ; but 
even complexion and all taken in, she was no way, in point 
of good looks, to compare to poor Judy, and withal she 
had a quality toss with her; but maybe it was my over- 
partiality to Judy, into whose place I may say she stepped, 
that made me notice all this. 

To do her justice, however, she was, when we came to 
know her better, very liberal in her housekeeping — nothing 
at all of the skinflint in her; she left everything to the 
housekeeper, and her own maid, Mrs. Jane, who went with 
her to Scotland, gave her the best of characters for gener- 
osity. She seldom or ever wore a thing twice the same 
way, Mrs. Jane told us, and was always pulling her things 
to pieces and giving them away,. never being used, in her 
father’s house, to think of expense in anything; and she 
reckoned to be sure to go on the same way at Castle Rack- 
rent ; but when I came to inquire, I learned that her father 
was so mad with her for running off, after his locking her 
up and forbidding her to think any more of Sir Condy, that 
he would not give her a farthing; and it was lucky for her 
she had a few thousands of her own, which had been left to 
her by a good grandmother, and these were very convenient 
to begin with. My master and my lady set out in great 
style ; they had the finest coach and chariot, and horses 
and liveries, and cut the greatest dash in the county, re- 
turning their wedding visits; and it was immediately 
reported that her father had undertaken to pay all my 
master’s debts, and of course all his tradesmen gave him a 
new credit, and everything went on smack smooth, and I 
could not but admire my lady’s spirit, and was proud to 

31 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


see Castle Rackrent again in all its glory. My lady had a 
fine taste for building, and furniture, and playhouses, and 
she turned everything topsy-turvy, and made the barrack- 
room into a theatre, as she called it, and she went on as if 
she had a mint of money at her elbow ; and to be sure I 
thought she knew best, especially as Sir Condy said no- 
thing to it one way or the other. All he asked — God bless 
him! — was to live in peace and quietness, and have his 
bottle or his whisky-punch at night to himself. Now this 
was little enough, to be sure, for any gentleman ; but my 
lady could n’t abide the smell of the whisky-punch. 

“My dear,” says he, “you liked it well enough before we 
were married, and why not now?” 

“My dear,” said she, “I never smelt it, or I assure you 
I should never have prevailed upon myself to marry you.” 

“My dear, I am sorry you did not smell it, but we can’t 
help that now,” returned my master, without putting him- 
self in a' passion, or going out of his way, but just fair and 
easy helped himself to another glass, and drank it off to her 
good health. 

All this the butler told me, who was going backwards 
and forwards unnoticed with the jug, and hot water, and 
sugar, and all he thought wanting. Upon my master’s 
swallowing the last glass of whisky-punch my lady burst 
into tears, calling him an ungrateful, base, barbarous 
wretch; and went off into a fit of hysterics, as I think 
Mrs. Jane called it, and my poor master was greatly fright- 
ened, this being the first thing of the kind he had seen; 
and he fell straight on his knees before her, and, like a 
good-hearted cratur as he was, ordered the whisky-punch 
out of the room, and bid ’em throw open all the windows, 
and cursed himself: and then my lady came to herself 
again, and when she saw him kneeling there, bid him get 
up, and not forswear himself any more, for that she was 
sure he did not love her, and never had. This we learned 
from Mrs. Jane, who was the only person left present at 
all this. 

“My dear,” returns my master, thinking, to be sure, of 
Judy, as well he might, “whoever told you so is an incend- 

32 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


iary, and I’ll have ’em turned out of the house this minute, 
if you ’ll only let me know which of them it was.” 

“Told me what?” said my lady, starting upright in her 
chair. 

“Nothing at all, nothing at all,” said my master, seeing 
he had overshot himself, and that my lady spoke at ran- 
dom; “but what you said just now, that I did not love 
you, Bella; who told you that?” 

“My own sense,” she said, and she put her handkerchief 
to her face, and leant back upon Mrs. Jane, and fell to 
sobbing as if her heart would break. 

“Why now, Bella, this is very strange of you,” said my 
poor master; “if nobody has told you nothing, what is it 
you are taking on for at this rate, and exposing yourself 
and me for this way? ” 

“Oh, say no more, say no more; every word you say 
kills me,” cried my lady; and .she ran on like one, as Mrs. 
Jane says, raving, “Oh, Sir Condy, Sir Condy ! I that had 
hoped to find in you ” 

“Why now, faith, this is a little too much; do, Bella, 
try to recollect yourself, my dear; am not I your husband, 
and of your own choosing, and is not that enough?” 

“Oh, too much! too much!” cried my lady, wringing 
her hands. 

“Why, my dear, come to your right senses, for the love 
of heaven. See, is not the whisky-punch, jug and bowl 
and all, gone out of the room long ago? What is it, in the 
wide world, you have to complain of?” 

But still my lady sobbed and sobbed, and called herself 
the most wretched of women ; and among other out-of-the- 
way provoking things, asked my master, was he fit com- 
pany for her, and he drinking all night ? This nettling him, 
which it was hard to do, he replied, that as to drinking all 
night, he was then as sober as she was herself, and that it 
was no matter how much a man drank, provided it did no- 
ways affect or stagger him : that as to being fit company 
for her, he thought himself of a family to be fit company 
for any lord or lady in the land ; but that he never pre- 
vented her from seeing and keeping what company she 

33 


3 


CASTLE RACKRENT 

pleased, and that he had done his best to make Castle 
Rackrent pleasing to her since her marriage, having always 
had the house full of visitors, and if her own relations were 
not amongst them, he said that was their own fault, and 
their pride’s fault, of which he was sorry to find her lady- 
ship had so unbecoming a share. So concluding, he took 
his candle and walked off to his room, and my lady was in 
her tantarums for three days after ; and would have been so 
much longer, no doubt, but some of her friends, young 
ladies, and cousins, and second cousins, came to Castle 
Rackrent, by my poor master’s express invitation, to see 
her, and she was in a hurry to get up, as Mrs. Jane called it, 
a play for them, and so got well, and was as finely dressed, 
and as happy to look at, as ever; and all the young 
ladies, who used to be in her room dressing of her, said in 
Mrs. Jane’s hearing that my lady was the happiest bride ever 
they had seen, and that to be sure a love-match was the 
only thing for happiness, where the parties could any way 
afford it. 

As to affording it, God knows it was little they knew of 
the matter; my lady’s few thousands could not last for 
ever, especially the way she went on with them ; and let- 
ters from tradesfolk came every post thick and threefold, 
with bills as long as my arm, of years’ and years’ standing. 
My son Jason had ’em all handed over to him, and the 
pressing letters were all unread by Sir Condy, who hated 
trouble, and could never be brought to hear talk of busi- 
ness, but still put it off and put it off, saying, “Settle it 
anyhow,’’ or, “Bid ’em call again to-morrow,’’ or, “Speak 
to me about it some other time.’’ Now it was hard to find 
the right time to speak, for in the mornings he was a-bed, 
and in the evenings over his bottle, where no gentleman 
chooses to be disturbed. Things in a twelvemonth or so 
came to such a pass there was no making a shift to go on 
any longer, though we were all of us well enough used to 
live from hand to mouth at Castle Rackrent. One day, I 
remember, when there was a power of company, all sitting 
after dinner in the dusk, not to say dark, in the drawing- 
room, my lady having rung five times for candles, and 

34 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


none to go up, the housekeeper sent up the footman, who 
went to my mistress, and whispered behind her chair how 
it was. 

My lady, ’ ’ says he, ‘ ‘ there are no candles in the house. ’ ’ 
“Bless me,“ says she; “then take a horse and gallop off 
as fast as you can to Garrick O’ Fungus, and get some.” 

“And in the meantime tell them to step into the play- 
house, and try if there are not some bits left,” added Sir 
Condy, who happened to be within hearing. The man 
was sent up again to my lady, to let her know there was 
no horse to go, but one that wanted a shoe. 

“Go to Sir Condy then ; I know nothing at all about the 
horses,” said my lady; “why do you plague me with these 
things?” How it was settled, I really forget, but to the 
best of my remembrance, the boy was sent down to my 
son Jason’s to borrow candles for the night. Another 
time, in the winter, and on a desperate cold day, there was 
no turf in for the parlour and above stairs, and scarce 
enough for the cook in the kitchen. The little gossoon'^ 
was sent off to the neighbours, to see and beg or borrow 
some, but none could he bring back with him for love or 
money ; so, as needs must, we were forced to trouble Sir 
Condy — “Well, and if there’s no turf to be had in the town 
or country, why, what signifies talking any more about it ; 
can’t ye go and cut down a tree? ” 

“Which tree, please your honour? ” I made bold to say. 
“Any tree at all that’s good to burn,” said Sir Condy; 
“send off smart and get one down, and the fires lighted, 
before my lady gets up to breakfast, or the house will be 
too hot to hold us.” 

He was always very considerate in all things about my 
lady, and she wanted for nothing whilst he had it to give. 
Well, when things were tight with them about this time, 
my son Jason put in a word again about the Lodge, and 

’ Gossoon : a little boy — from the French word gar(;on. In most Irish 
families there used to be a barefooted gossoon, who was slave to the cook and 
the butler, and who, in fact, without wages, did all the hard work of the 
house. Gossoons were always employed as messengers. The Editor has 
known a gossoon to go on foot, without shoes or stockings, fifty-one English 
miles between sunrise and sunset. 


35 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


made a genteel offer to lay down the purchase-money, to 
relieve Sir Condy’s distresses. Now Sir Condy had it 
from the best authority that there were two writs come 
down to the sheriff against his person, and the sheriff, as 
ill-luck would have it, was no friend of his, and talked how 
he must do his duty, and how he would do it, if it was 
against the first man in the country, or even his own 
brother, let alone one who had voted against him at the 
last election, as Sir Condy had done. So Sir Condy was 
fain to take the purchase-money of the Lodge from my 
son Jason to settle matters; and sure enough it was a good 
bargain for both parties, for my son bought the fee-simple 
of a good house for him and his heirs for ever, for little or 
nothing, and by selling of it for that same my master saved 
himself from a gaol. Every way it turned out fortunate 
for Sir Condy, for before the money was all gone there 
came a general election, and he being so well beloved in 
the county, and one of the oldest families, no one had a 
better right to stand candidate for the vacancy; and he 
was called upon by all his friends, and the whole county I 
may say, to declare himself against the old member, who 
had little thought of a contest. My master did not relish 
the thoughts of a troublesome canvas, and all the ill-will 
he might bring upon himself by disturbing the peace of the 
county, besides the expense, which was no trifle; but all 
his friends called upon one another to subscribe, and they 
formed themselves into a committee, and wrote all his cir- 
cular letters for him, and engaged all his agents, and did 
all the business unknown to him ; and he was well pleased 
that it should be so at last, and my lady herself was very 
sanguine about the election; and there was open house 
kept night and day at Castle Rackrent, and I thought I 
never saw my lady look so well in her life as she did at that 
time. There were grand dinners, and all the gentlemen 
drinking success to Sir Condy till they were carried off; 
and then dances and balls, and the ladies all finishing with 
a raking pot of tea in the morning.* Indeed, it was well 
the company made it their choice to sit up all night, for 
* See Glossary. 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


there were not half beds enough for the sights of people 
that were in it, though there were shake-downs in the 
drawing-room always made up before sunrise for those that 
liked it. For my part, when I saw the doings that were 
going on, and the loads of claret that went down the 
throats of them that had no right to be asking for it, and 
the sights of meat that went up to table and never came 
down, besides what was carried off to one or t’other below 
stair, I couldn’t but pity my poor master, who was to pay 
for all ; but I said nothing, for fear of gaining myself ill- 
will. The day of election will come some time or other, 
says I to myself, and all will be over ; and so it did, and a 
glorious day it was as any I ever had the happiness to see. 

“Huzza! huzza! Sir Condy Rackrent for ever!’’ was 
the first thing I hears in the morning, and the same and 
nothing else all day, and not a soul sober only just when 
polling, enough to give their votes as became ’em, and to 
stand the browbeating of the lawyers, who came tight 
enough upon us; and many of our freeholders were 
knocked off, having never a freehold that they could safely 
swear to, and Sir Condy was not willing to have any man 
perjure himself for his sake, as was done on the other side, 
God knows; but no matter for that. Some of our friends 
were dumbfounded by the lawyers asking them : Had they 
ever been upon the ground where their freeholds lay? 
Now, Sir Condy being tender of the consciences of them 
that had not been on the ground, and so could not swear 
to a freehold when cross-examined by them lawyers, sent 
out for a couple of cleavesful of the sods of his farm of 
Gulteeshinnagh ’ ; and as soon as the sods came into town, 
he set each man upon his sod, and so then, ever after, you 

• At St. Patrick’s meeting, London, March, 1806, the Duke of Sussex said 
he had the honour of bearing an Irish title, and, with the permission of the 
company, he should tell them an anecdote of what he had experienced on his 
travels. When he was at Rome he went to visit an Irish seminary, and when 
they heard who it was, and that he had an Irish title, some of them asked 
him, “ Please your Royal Highness, since you are an Irish peer, will you tell' 
us if you ever trod upon Irish ground ? ” When he told them he had not, 
“Oh, then,” said one of the Order, “you shall soon do so.” They then 
spread some earth, which had been brought from Ireland, on a marble slab, 
and made him stand upon it. 


37 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


know, they could fairly swear they had been upon the 
ground.’ We gained the day by this piece of honesty.’ I 
thought I should have died in the streets for joy when I 
seed my poor master chaired, and he bareheaded, and it 
raining as hard as it could pour ; but all the crowds follow- 
ing him up and down, and he bowing and shaking hands 
with the whole town. 

“Is that Sir Condy Rackrent in the chair?” says a 
stranger man in the crowd. 

“The same,” says I. “Who else should it be? God 
bless him ! ” 

“And I take it, then, you belong to him?” says he. 

“Not at all,” says I; “but I live under him, and have 
done so these two hundred years and upwards, me and 
mine.” 

“It’s lucky for you, then,” rejoins he, “that he is where 
he is; for was he anywhere else but in the chair, this 
minute he’d be in a worse place; for I was sent down on 
purpose to put him up,’ and here’s my order for so doing 
in my pocket.” 

It was a writ that villain the wine merchant had marked 
against my poor master for some hundreds of an old debt, 
which it was a shame to be talking of at such a time as this. 

“Put it in your pocket again, and think no more of it 
anyways for seven years to come, my honest friend,” says 
I; “he’s a member of Parliament now, praised be God, 
and such as you can’t touch him : and if you’ll take a fool’s 
advice. I’d have you keep out of the way this day, or 
you’ll run a good chance of getting your deserts amongst 
my master’s friends, unless you choose to drink his health 
like everybody else.” 

“I’ve no objection to that in life, ’ ’ said he. So we went 
into one of the public-houses kept open for my master; 
and we had a great deal of talk about this thing and that. 
“And how is it,” says he, “your master keeps on so well 
upon his legs? I heard say he was off Holantide twelve- 
month past.” 

* This was actually done at an election in Ireland. 

* To put him up : to put him in gaol. 

38 


® See Glossary. 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


“Never was better or heartier in his life/’ said I. 

“It’s not that I’m after speaking of,’’ said he; “but 
there was a great report of his being ruined.’’ 

“No matter,’’ says I, “the sheriffs two years running 
were his particular friends, and the sub-sheriffs were both 
of them gentlemen, and were properly spoken to ; and so 
the writs lay snug with them, and they, as I understand 
by my son Jason the custom in them cases is, returned the 
writs as they came to them to those that sent ’em — much 
good may it do them ! — with a word in Latin, that no such 
person as Sir Condy Rackrent, Bart., was to be found in 
those parts.’’ 

“Oh, I understand all those ways better — no offence — 
than you,’’ says he, laughing, and at the same time filling 
his glass to my master’s good health, which convinced me 
he was a warm friend in his heart after all, though appear- 
ances were a little suspicious or so at first. “To be sure,’’ 
says he, still cutting his joke, “when a man’s overhead 
and shoulders in debt, he may live the faster for it, and 
the better if he goes the right way about it ; or else how is 
it so many live on so well, as we see every day, after they 
are ruined? ’’ 

“How is it,’’ says I, being a little merry at the time — 
“how is it but just as you see the ducks in the chicken- 
yard, just after their heads are cut off by the cook, running 
round and round faster than when alive? ’’ 

At which conceit he fell a-laughing, and remarked he 
had never had the happiness yet to see the chicken-yard at 
Castle Rackrent. 

“It won’t be long so, I hope,’’ says I ; “you’ll be kindly 
welcome there, as everybody is made by my master : there 
is not a freer-spoken gentleman, or a better beloved, high 
or low, in all Ireland.’’ 

And of what passed after this I’m not sensible, for we 
drank Sir Condy’s good health and the downfall of his 
enemies till we could stand no longer ourselves. And 
little did I think at the time, or till long after, how I was 
harbouring my poor master’s greatest of enemies myself. 
This fellow had the impudence, after coming to see the 

39 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


chicken-yard, to get me to introduce him to my son Jason ; 
little more than the man that never was born did I guess 
at his meaning by this visit : he gets him a correct list 
fairly drawn out from my son Jason of all my master’s 
debts, and goes straight round to the creditors and buys 
them all up, which he did easy enough, seeing the half of 
them never expected to see their money out of Sir Condy’s 
hands. Then, when this base-minded limb of the law, as 
I afterwards detected him in being, grew to be sole creditor 
over all, he takes him out a custodiam on all the denomina- 
tions and sub-denominations, and even carton * and half- 
carton upon the estate; and not content with that, must 
have an execution against the master’s goods and down to 
the furniture, though little worth, of Castle Rackrent itself. 
But this is a part of my story I’m not come to yet, and it’s 
bad to be forestalling: ill news flies fast enough all the 
world over. 

To go back to the day of the election, which I never 
think of but with pleasure and tears of gratitude for those 
good times : after the election was quite and clean over, 
there comes shoals of people from all parts, claiming to 
have obliged my master with their votes, and putting him 
in mind of promises which he could never remember him- 
self to have made : one was to have a freehold for each of 
his four sons; another was to have a renewal of a lease; 
another an abatement ; one came to be paid ten guineas 
for a pair of silver buckles sold my master on the hustings, 
which turned out to be no better than copper gilt ; another 
had a long bill for oats, the half of which never went into 
the granary to my certain knowledge, and the other half 
was not fit for the cattle to touch ; but the bargain was 
made the week before the election, and the coach and 
saddle-horses were got into order for the day, besides a 
vote fairly got by them oats ; so no more reasoning on that 
head. But then there was no end to them that were tell- 
ing Sir Condy he had engaged to make their sons excise- 
men, or high constables, or the like ; and as for them that 
had bills to give in for liquor, and beds, and straw, and 

* See Glossary. 

40 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


ribands, and horses, and post-chaises for the gentlemen 
freeholders that came from all parts and other counties to 
vote for my master, and were not, to be sure, to be at any 
charges, there was no standing against all these ; and, worse 
than all, the gentlemen of my master’s committee, who 
managed all for him, and talked how they’d bring him in 
without costing him a penny, and subscribed by hundreds 
very genteelly, forgot to pay their subscriptions, and had 
laid out in agents’ and lawyers’ fees and secret service 
money to the Lord knows how much ; and my master could 
never ask one of them for their subscription you are sensi- 
ble, nor for the price of a fine horse he had sold one of 
them ; so it all was left at his door. He could never, God 
bless him again ! I say, bring himself to ask a gentleman 
for money, despising such sort of conversation himself ; but 
others, who were not gentlemen born, behaved very uncivil 
in pressing him at this very time, and all he could do to 
content ’em all was to take himself out of the way as fast 
as possible to Dublin, where my lady had taken a house 
fitting for him as a member of Parliament, to attend his 
duty in there all the winter. I was very lonely when the 
whole family was gone, and all the things they had ordered 
to go, and forgot, sent after them by the car. There was 
then a great silence in Castle Rackrent, and I went moping 
from room to room, hearing the doors clap for want of 
right locks, and the wind through the broken windows, 
that the glazier never would come to mend, and the rain 
coming through the roof and best ceilings all over the 
house for want of the slater, whose bill was not paid, be- 
sides our having no slates or shingles for that part of the 
old building which was shingled and burnt when the chim- 
ney took fire, and had been open to the weather ever since. 
I took myself to the servants’ hall in the evening tb smoke 
my pipe as usual, but missed the bit of talk we used to 
have there sadly, and ever after was content to stay in the 
kitchen and boil my little potatoes,* and put up my bed 

• My little potatoes . — Thady does not mean by this expression that his 
potatoes were less than other people’s, or less than the usual size. Little is 
here used only as an Italian diminutive, expressive of fondness. 

41 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


there, and every post-day I looked in the newspaper, but 
no news of my master in the House; he never spoke good 
or bad, but, as the butler wrote down word to my son 
Jason, was very ill-used by the Government about a place 
that was promised him and never given, after his support- 
ing them against his conscience very honourably, and being 
greatly abused for it, which hurt him greatly, he having 
the name of a great patriot in the country before. The 
house and living in Dublin too were not to be had for 
nothing, and my son Jason said, “Sir Condy must soon 
be looking out for a new agent, for I’ve done my part, and 
can do no more. If my lady had the bank of Ireland to 
spend, it would go all in one winter, and Sir Condy would 
never gainsay her, though he does not care the rind of a 
lemon for her all the while.’’ 

Now I could not bear to hear Jason giving out after this 
manner against the family, and twenty people standing by 
in the street. Ever since he had lived at the Lodge of his 
own he looked down, howsomever, upon poor old Thady, 
and was grown quite a great gentleman, and had none of 
his relations near him ; no wonder he was no kinder to poor 
Sir Condy than to his own kith or kin.‘ In the spring it 
was the villain that got the list of the debts from him 
brought down the custodiam. Sir Condy still attending his 
duty in Parliament ; and I could scarcely believe my own 
old eyes, or the spectacles with which I read it, when I was 
shown my son Jason’s name joined in the custodiam; but 
he told me it was only for form’s sake, and to make things 
easier than if all the land was under the power of a total 
stranger. Well, I did not know what to think ; it was hard 
to be talking ill of my own, and I could not but grieve for 
my poor master’s fine estate, all torn by these vultures of 
the law; so I said nothing, but just looked on to see how 
it would all end. 

It was not till the month of June that he and my lady 
came down to the country. My master was pleased to 
take me aside with him to the brewhouse that same evening, 

‘ Kith and kin : family or relations. Kin from kind; kith from we know 
not what. 


42 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


to complain to me of my son and other matters, in which 
he said he was confident I had neither art nor part ; he said 
a great deal more to me, to whom he had been fond to talk 
ever since he was my white-headed boy before he came to 
the estate; and all that he said about poor Judy I can 
never forget, but scorn to repeat. He did not say an un- 
kind word of my lady, but wondered, as well he might, her 
relations would do nothing for him or her, and they in all 
this great distress. He did not take anything long to 
heart, let it be as it would, and had no more malice or 
thought of the like in him than a child that can’t speak; 
this night it was all out of his head before he went to his 
bed. He took his jug of whisky-punch — my lady was grown 
quite easy about the whisky-punch by this time, and so I 
did suppose all was going on right betwixt them, till I 
learnt the truth through Mrs. Jane, who talked over the 
affairs to the housekeeper, and I within hearing. The 
night my master came home, thinking of nothing at all but 
just making merry, he drank his bumper toast “to the de- 
serts of that old curmudgeon my father-in-law, and all 
enemies at Mount Juliet’s Town.” Now my lady was 
no longer in the mind she formerly was, and did noways 
relish hearing her own friends abused in her presence, she 
said. 

“Then why don’t they show themselves your friends,” 
said my master, “and oblige me with the loan of the money 
1 condescended, by your advice, my dear, to ask? It’s now 
three posts since I sent off my letter, desiring in the post- 
script a speedy answer by the return of the post, and no 
account at all from them yet.” 

“I expect they’ll write to me next post,” says my lady, 
and that was all that passed then ; but it was easy from 
this to guess there was a coolness betwixt them, and with 
good cause. 

The next morning, being post-day, I sent off the gos- 
soon early to the post-office, to see was there any letter 
likely to set matters to rights, and he brought back one 
with the proper post-mark upon it, sure enough, and I had 
no time to examine or make any conjecture more about it, 

43 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


for into the servants’ hall pops Mrs. Jane with a blue band- 
box in her hand, quite entirely mad. 

“Dear ma’am, and what’s the matter?” says I. 

“Matter enough,” says she; “don’t you see my band- 
box is wet through, and my best bonnet here spoiled, be- 
sides my lady’s, and all by the rain coming in through that 
gallery window that you might have got mended if you’d 
had any sense, Thady, all the time we were in town in the 
winter? ” 

“Sure, I could not get the glazier, ma’am,” says I. 

“You might have stopped it up anyhow,” says she. 

“So I did, ma’am, to the best of my ability; one of the 
panes with the old pillow-case, and the other with a piece 
of the old stage green curtain. Sure I was as careful as 
possible all the time you were away, and not a drop of rain 
came in at that window of all the windows in the house, all 
winter, ma’am, when under my care ; and now the family’s 
come home, and it’s summer-time, I never thought no 
more about it, to be sure; but dear, it’s a pity to think of 
your bonnet, ma’am. But here’s what will please you, 
ma’am — a letter from Mount Juliet’s Town for my lady. 

With that she snatches it from me without a word more, 
and runs up the back stairs to my mistress ; I follows with 
a slate to make up the window. This window was in the 
long passage — or gallery, as my lady gave out orders to have 
it called — in the gallery leading to my master’s bedchamber 
and hers. And when I went up with the slate, the door 
having no lock, and the bolt spoilt, was ajar after Mrs. 
Jane, and, as I was busy with the window, I heard all that 
was saying within. 

“Well, what’s in your letter, Bella, my dear?” says he: 
“you’re a long time spelling it over.” 

“Won’t you shave this morning. Sir Condy?” says she, 
and put the letter into her pocket. 

“I shaved the day before yesterday,” said he, “my dear, 
and that’s not what I’m thinking of now; but anything to 
oblige you, and to have peace and quietness, my dear” — 
and presently I had a glimpse of him at the cracked glass 
over the chimney-piece, standing up shaving himself to 

44 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


please my lady. But she took no notice, but went on 
reading her book, and Mrs. Jane doing her hair behind. 

“What is it you're reading there, my dear? — phoo. I’ve 
cut myself with this razor ; the man’s a cheat that sold it 
me, but I have not paid him for it yet. What is it you’re 
reading there? Did you hear me asking you, my dear? ’’ 

“ The Sorrows of Werterf replies my lady, as well as I 
could hear. 

“I think more of the sorrows of Sir Condy,’’ says my 
master, joking like. “What news from Mount Juliet’s 
Town? ’’ 

“No news,’’ says she, “but the old story over again; my 
friends all reproaching me still for what I can’t help now.’’ 

“Is it for marrying me?’’ said my master, still shaving. 
“What signifies, as you say, talking of that, when it can’t 
be help’d now? ’’ 

With that she heaved a great sigh that I heard plain 
enough in the passage. 

“And did not you use me basely. Sir Condy,’’ says she, 
“not to tell me you were ruined before I married you?’’ 

“Tell you, my dear! ’’ said he. “Did you ever ask me 
one word about it ? And had not you friends enough of 
your own, that were telling you nothing else from morning 
to night, if you’d have listened to them slanders?’’ 

“No slanders, nor are my friends slanderers ; and I can’t 
bear to hear them treated with disrespect as I do,’’ says 
my lady, and took out her pocket-handkerchief; “they are 

the best of friends, and if I had taken their advice 

But my father was wrong to lock me up, I own. That 
was the only unkind thing I can charge him with ; for if he 
had not locked me up, I should never have had a serious 
thought of running away as I did.’’ 

“Well, my dear,’’ said my master, “don’t cry and make 
yourself uneasy about it now, when it’s all over, and you 
have the man of your own choice, in spite of ’em all.’’ 

“I was too young, I know, to make a choice at the time 
you ran away with me. I’m sure,’’ says my lady, and 
another sigh, which made my master, half-shaved as he 
was, turn round upon her in surprise. 

45 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


"Why, Bell,” says he,"you can't deny what you know 
as well as I do, that it was at your own particular desire, 
and that twice under your own hand and seal expressed, 
that I should carry you off as I did to Scotland, and marry 
you there.” 

“Well, say no more about it, SirCondy,” said my lady, 
pettish-like; “I was a child then, you know.” 

“And as far as I know, you’re little better now, my 
dear Bella, to be talking in this manner to your husband’s 
face; but I won’t take it ill of you, for I know it’s some- 
thing in that letter you put into your pocket just now that 
has set you against me all on a sudden, and imposed upon 
your understanding.” 

“It’s not so very easy as you think it. Sir Condy, to im- 
pose upon my understanding,” said my lady. 

“My dear,’’ says he, “I have, and with reason, the best 
opinion of your understanding of any man now breathing; 
and you know I have never set my own in competition 
with it till now, my dear Bella,” says he, taking her hand 
from her book as kind as could be — “till now, when I have 
the great advantage of being quite cool, and you not ; so 
don’t believe one word your friends say against your own 
Sir Condy, and lend me the letter out of your pocket, till 
I see what it is they can have to say. ’ ’ 

“Take it then,” says she; “and as you are quite cool, 
I hope it is a proper time to request you’ll allow me to 
comply with the wishes of all my own friends, and return 
to live with my father and family, during the remainder of 
my wretched existence, at Mount Juliet’s Town.” 

At this my poor master fell back a few paces, like one 
that had been shot. 

“You’re not serious, Bella,” says he; “and could you 
find it in your heart to leave me this way in the very 
middle of my distresses, all alone? ” But recollecting him- 
self after his first surprise, and a moment ’^s time for reflec- 
tion, he said, with a great deal of consideration for my 
lady, “Well, Bella, my dear, I believe you are right; for 
what could you do at Castle Rackrent, and an execution 
against the goods coming down, and the furniture to be 

46 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


canted, and an auction in the house all next week? So 
you have my full consent to go, since that is your desire; 
only you must not think of my accompanying you, which 
I could not in honour do upon the terms I always have 
been, since our marriage, with your friends. Besides, I 
have business to transact at home ; so in the meantime, if 
we are to have any breakfast this morning, let us go down 
and have it for the last time in peace and comfort, Bella.” 

Then as I heard my master coming to the passage door, 
I finished fastening up my slate against the broken pane; 
and when he came out I wiped down the window-seat with 
my wig,' and bade him a ‘‘good-morrow ” as kindly as I 
could, seeing he was in trouble, though he strove and 
thought to hide it from me. 

‘‘This window is all racked and tattered,” says I, “and 
it’s what I’m striving to mend.” 

“It is all racked and tattered, plain enough,” says he, 
“and nevermind mending it, honest old Thady,” says he; 
“it will do well enough for you and I, and that’s all the 
company we shall have left in the house by and by.” 

“I’m sorry to see your honour so low this morning, “ 
says I ; “but you’ll be better after taking your breakfast.” 

“Step down to the servants’ hall,” said he, “and bring 
me up the pen and ink into the parlour, and get a sheet 
of paper from Mrs. Jane, for I have business that can’t 
brook to be delayed ; and come into the parlour with the 
pen and ink yourself, Thady, for I must have you to wit- 
ness my signing a paper I have to execute in a hurry.” 

Well, while I was getting of the pen and ink-horn, and 
the sheet of paper, I ransacked my brains to think what 

* Wigs were formerly used instead of brooms in Ireland for sweeping or 
dusting tables, stairs, etc. The Editor doubted the fact till he saw a labourer 
of the old school sweep down a flight of stairs with his wig ; he afterwards put 
it on his head again with the utmost composure, and said, “ Oh, please your 
honour, it ’s never a bit the worse.” 

It must be acknowledged that these men are not in any danger of catching 
cold by taking off their wigs occasionally, because they usually have fine crops 
of hair growing under their wigs. The wigs are often yellow, and the hair 
which appears from beneath them black ; the wigs are usually too small, and 
are raised up by the hair beneath, or by the ears of the wearers. 

47 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


could be the papers my poor master could have to execute 
in such a hurry, he that never thought of such a thing as 
doing business afore breakfast in the whole course of his 
life, for any man living; but this was for my lady, as I 
afterwards found, and the more genteel of him after all her 
treatment. 

I was just witnessing the paper that he had scrawled 
over, and was shaking the ink out of my pen upon the 
carpet, when my lady came in to breakfast, and she started 
as if it had been a ghost ; as well she might, when she saw 
Sir Condy writing at this unseasonable hour. 

“That will do very well, Thady,'' says he to me, and 
took the paper I had signed to, without knowing what 
upon the earth it might be, out of my hands, and walked, 
folding it up, to my lady. 

“You are concerned in this, my Lady Rackrent,” said 
he, putting it into her hands; “and I beg you’ll keep this 
memorandum safe, and show it to your friends the first 
thing you do when you get home; but put it in your 
pocket now, my dear, and let us eat our breakfast, in God’s 
name.’’ 

“What is all this?’’ said my lady, opening the paper in 
great curiosity. 

“It’s only a bit of a memorandum of what I think be- 
comes me to do whenever I am able,’’ says my master; 
“you know my situation, tied hand and foot at the present 
time being, but that can’t last always, and when I’m dead 
and gone the land will be to the good, Thady, you know ; 
and take notice it’s my intention your lady should have a 
clear five hundred a year jointure off the estate afore any 
of my debts are paid.’’ 

“Oh, please your honour,” says I, “I can’t expect to 
live to see that time, being now upwards of fourscore years 
of age, and you a young man, and likely to continue so, 
by the help of God.” 

I was vexed to see my lady so insensible too, for all she 
said was, “This is very genteel of you. Sir Condy. You 
need not wait any longer, Thady.” So I just picked up 
the pen and ink that had tumbled on the floor, and heard 

48 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


my master finish with saying, “You behaved very genteel 
to me, my dear, when you threw all the little you had in 
your power along with yourself into my hands; and as I 
don’t deny but what you may have had some things to 
complain of,” — to be sure he was thinking then of Judy, 
or of the whisky-punch, one or t’other, or both, — “and as 
I don’t deny but you may have had something to complain 
of, my dear, it is but fair you should have something in the 
form of compensation to look forward to agreeably in 
future; besides, it’s an act of justice to myself, that none 
of your friends, my dear, may ever have it to say against 
me, I married for money, and not for love.” 

“That is the last thing I should ever have thought of 
saying of you, Sir Condy,’’ said my lady, looking very 
gracious. 

“Then, my dear,” said Sir Condy, “we shall part as 
good friends as we met; so all’s right.’’ 

I was greatly rejoiced to hear this, and went out of the 
parlour to report it all to the kitchen. The next morning 
my lady and Mrs. Jane set out for Mount Juliet’s Town in 
the jaunting-car. Many wondered at my lady’s choosing 
to go away, considering all things, upon the jaunting-car, 
as if it was only a party of pleasure ; but they did not know 
till I told them that the coach was all broke in the journey 
down, and no other vehicle but the car to be had. Be- 
sides, my lady’s friends were to send their coach to meet 
her at the cross-roads ; so it was all done very proper. 

My poor master was in great trouble after my lady left 
us. The execution came down, and everything at Castle 
Rackrent was seized by the gripers, and my son Jason, to 
his shame be it spoken, amongst them. I wondered, for 
the life of me, how he could harden himself to do it ; but 
then he had been studying the law, and had made himself 
Attorney Quirk; so he brought down at once a heap of 
accounts upon my master’s head. To cash lent, and to 
ditto, and to ditto, and to ditto and oats, and bills paid at 
the milliner’s and linen-draper’s, and many dresses for the 
fancy balls in Dublin for my lady, and all the bills to the 
workmen and tradesmen for the scenery of the theatre, 

49 


4 


CASTLE RACKRENT 

and the chandler’s and grocer’s bills, and tailor’s, besides 
butcher’s and baker’s, and, worse than all, the old one of 
that base wine merchant’s, that wanted to arrest my poor 
master for the amount on the election day, for which 
amount Sir Condy afterwards passed his note of hand, 
bearing lawful interest from the date thereof ; and the in- 
terest and compound interest was now mounted to a terrible 
deal on many other notes and bonds for money borrowed, 
and there was, besides, hush-money to the sub-sheriffs, and 
sheets upon sheets of old and new attorneys’ bills, with 
heavy balances, ‘ ‘ as per former account furnished, ’ ’ brought 
forward with interest thereon ; then there was a powerful 
deal due to the Crown for sixteen years’ arrear of quit-rent 
of the town-lands of Carrickashaughlin, -with driver’s fees, 
and a compliment to the receiver every year for letting the 
quit-rent run on to oblige Sir Condy, and Sir Kit afore him. 
Then there were bills for spirits and ribands at the election 
time, and the gentlemen of the committee’s accounts un- 
settled, and their subscription never gathered ; and there 
were cows to be paid for, with the smith and farrier’s bills 
to be set against the rent of the demesne, with calf and hay 
money; then there was all the servants’ wages, since I 
don’t know when, coming due to them, and sums ad- 
vanced for them by my son Jason for clothes, and boots, 
and whips, and odd moneys for sundries expended by them 
in journeys to town and elsewhere, and pocket-money for 
the master continually, and messengers and postage before 
his being a Parliament man. I can’t myself tell you what 
besides; but this I know, that when the evening came on 
the which Sir Condy had appointed to settle all with my 
son Jason, and when he comes into the parlour, and sees 
the sight of bills and load of papers all gathered on the 
great dining-table for him, he puts his hands before both 
his eyes, and cried out, “Merciful Jasus ! what is it I see be- 
fore me? ’’ Then I sets an arm-chair at the table for him, 
and with a deal of difficulty he sits him down, and my son 
Jason hands him over the pen and ink to sign to this man’s 
bill and t’other man’s bill, all which he did without making 
the least objections. Indeed, to give him his due, I never 

50 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


seen a man more fair and honest, and easy in all his deal- 
ings, from first to last, as Sir Condy, or more willing to 
pay every man his own as far as he was able, which is as 
much as any one can do. 

“Well,” says he, joking like with Jason, “I wish we 
could settle it all with a stroke of my grey goose quill. 
What signifies making me wade through all this ocean of 
papers here; can’t you now, who understand drawing out 
an account, debtor and creditor, just sit down here at the 
corner of the table and get it done out for me, that I may 
have a clear view of the balance, which is all I need be 
talking about, you know?” 

“Very true, Sir Condy; nobody understands business 
better than yourself,” says Jason. 

“So I’ve a right to do, being born and bred to the bar,” 
says Sir Condy. “Thady, do step out and see are they 
bringing in the things for the punch, for we’ve just done 
all we have to do for this evening.” 

I goes out accordingly, and when I came back Jason was 
pointing to the balance, which was a terrible sight to my 
poor master. 

“Pooh! pooh! pooh!” says he. “Here’s so many 
noughts they dazzle my eyes, so they do, and put me in 
mind of all I suffered laming of my numeration table, 
when I was a boy at the day-school along with you, Jason 
— units, tens, hundreds, tens of hundreds. Is the punch 
ready, Thady?” says he, seeing me. 

“Immediately; the boy has the jug in his hand; it’s 
coming upstairs, please your honour, as fast as possible,” 
says I, for I saw his honour was tired out of his life; but 
Jason, very short and cruel, cuts me off with — “Don’t be 
talking of punch yet awhile; it’s no time for punch yet a 
bit — units, tens, hundreds,” goes he on, counting over 
the master’s shoulder, units, tens, hundreds, thousands. 

“A-a-ah! hold your hand,” cries my master. “Where 
in this wide world am I to find hundreds, or units itself, let 
alone thousands?” 

“The balance has been running on too long,” says Jason, 
sticking to him as I could not have done ^t the time, if 

51 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


you’d have given both the Indies and Cork to boot; ‘*the 
balance has been running on too long, and I’m distressed 
myself on your account, Sir Condy, for money, and the 
thing must be settled now on the spot, and the balance 
cleared off,” says Jason. 

“I’ll thank you if you’ll only show me how,” says Sir 
Condy. 

“There’s but one way,” says Jason, “and that’s ready 
enough. When there’s no cash, what can a gentleman do 
but go to the land?” 

“How can you go to the land, and it under custodiam 
to yourself already?” says Sir Condy; “and another cus- 
todiam hanging over it? And no one at all can touch it, 
you know, but the custodees.” 

“Sure, can’t you sell, though at a loss? Sure you can 
sell, and I've a purchaser ready for you,” says Jason. 

‘ ‘ Have you so ? ” says Sir Condy. ‘ ‘ That’s a great point 
gained. But there’s a thing now beyond all, that perhaps 
you don’t know yet, barring Thady has let you into the 
secret.” 

“Sarrah bit of a secret, or anything at all of the kind, 
has he learned from me these fifteen weeks come St. John’s 
Eve,” says I, “for we have scarce been upon speaking 
terms of late. But what is it your honour means of a 
secret? ” 

“Why, the secret of the little keepsake I gave my Lady 
Rackrent the morning she left us, that she might not go 
back empty-handed to her friends.” 

“My Lady Rackrent, I’m sure, has baubles and keep- 
sakes enough, as those bills on the table will show,” says 
Jason; “but whatever it is,” says he, taking up his pen, 
“we must add it to the balance, for to be sure it can’t be 
paid for.” 

“No, nor can’t till after my decease,” says Sir Condy; 
“that’s one good thing.” Then colouring up a good deal, 
he tells Jason of the memorandum of the five hundred 
a year jointure he had settled upon my lady; at which 
Jason was indeed mad, and said a great deal in very high 
words, that it was using a gentleman who had the manage- 

52 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


ment of his affairs, and was, moreover, his principal creditor, 
extremely ill to do such a thing without consulting him, 
and against his knowledge and consent. To all which Sir 
Condy had nothing to reply, but that, upon his conscience, 
it was in a hurry and without a moment’s thought on his 
part, and he was very sorry for it, but if it was to do over 
again he would do the same ; and he appealed to me, and 
I was ready to give my evidence, if that would do, to the 
truth of all he said. 

So Jason with much ado was brought to agree to a com- 
promise. 

“The purchaser that I have ready,’’ says he, “will be 
much displeased, to be sure, at the encumbrance on the 
land, but I must see and manage him. Here’s a deed ready 
drawn up ; we have nothing to do but to put in the con- 
sideration money and our names to it.’’ 

“And how much am I going to sell? — the lands of 
O’Shaughlin’s Town, and the lands of Gruneaghoolaghan, 
and the lands of Crookaghnaw,aturgh,’’ says he, just reading 
to himself. “And — oh, murder, Jason! sure you won’t 
put this in — the castle, stable, and appurtenances of Castle 
Rackrent? ’’ 

“Oh, murder! “ says I, clapping my hands ; “this is too 
bad, Jason.’’ 

“Why so? ’’ said Jason. “When it’s all, and a great deal 
more to the back of it, lawfully mine, was I to push for it.’’ 

“Look at him,’’ says I, poiilting to Sir Condy, who was 
just leaning back in his arm-chair, with his arms falling 
beside him like one stupefied; “is it you, Jason, that can 
stand in his presence, and recollect all he has been to us, 
and all we have been to him, and yet use him so at the 
last?’’ 

“Who will you find to use him better? I ask you,’’ said 
Jason; “if he can get a better purchaser. I’m content; I 
only offer to purchase, to make things easy, and oblige 
him ; though I don’t see what compliment I am under, if 
you come to that. I have never had, asked, or charged 
more than sixpence in the pound, receiver’s fees, and 
where would he have got an agent for a penny less? ” 

53 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


“Oh, Jason! Jason! how will you stand to this in the 
face of the county, and all who know you? “ says I ; “and 
what will people think and say when they see you living 
here in Castle Rackrent, and the lawful owner turned out 
of the seat of his ancestors, without a cabin to put his 
head into, or so much as a potato to eat? “ 

Jason, whilst I was saying this, and a great deal more, 
made me signs, and winks, and frowns; but I took no 
heed, for I was grieved and sick at heart for my poor mas- 
ter, and couldn’t but speak. 

“Here’s the punch,’’ says Jason, for the door opened; 
“here’s the punch! ’’ 

Hearing that, my master starts up in his chair, and re- 
collects himself, and Jason uncorks the whisky. 

“Set down the jug here,’’ says he, making room for it 
beside the papers opposite to Sir Condy, but still not stir- 
ring the deed that was to make over all. 

Well, I was in great hopes he had some touch of mercy 
about him when I saw him making the punch, and my mas- 
ter took a glass; but Jason put it back as he was going to 
fill again, saying: “No, Sir Condy, it shan’t be said of me 
I got your signature to this deed when you were half-seas 
over: you know your name and handwriting in that condi- 
tion would not, if brought before the courts, benefit me a- 
straw ; wherefore, let us settle all before we go deeper into 
the punch-bowl.’’ 

“Settle all as you will,” said Sir Condy, clapping his 
hands to his ears; “but let me hear no more. I’m both- 
ered to death this night.’’ 

“You’ve only to sign,” said Jason, putting the pen to 
him. 

“Take all, and be content,’’ said my master. So he 
signed ; and the man who brought in the punch witnessed 
it, for I was not able, but crying like a child ; and besides, 
Jason said, which I was glad of, that I was no fit witness, 
being so old and doting. It was so bad with me, I could 
not taste a drop of the punch itself, though my master 
himself, God bless him ! in the midst of his trouble, poured 
out a glass for me, and brought it up to my lips. 

54 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


**Not a drop ; I thank your honour's honour as much as 
if I took it, though.” And I just set down the glass as it 
was, and went out, and when I got to the street door the 
neighbours’ childer, who were playing at marbles there, 
seeing me in great ’trouble, left their play, and gathered 
about me to know what ailed me; and I told them all, for 
it was a great relief to me to speak to these poor childer, 
that seemed to have some natural feeling left in them ; and 
when they were made sensible that Sir Condy was going to 
leave Castle Rackrent for good and all, they set up a whil- 
laluh that could be heard to the farthest end of the street ; 
and one — fine boy he was — that my master had given an 
apple to that morning, cried the loudest ; but they all were 
the same sorry, for Sir Condy was greatly beloved amongst 
the childer, for letting them go a-nutting in the demesne, 
without saying a word to them, though my lady objected 
to them. The people in the town, who were the most of 
them standing at their doors, hearing the childer cry, would 
know the reason of it ; and when the report was made 
known, the people one and all gathered in great anger 
against my son Jason, and terror at the notion of his com- 
ing to be landlord over them, and they cried, “No Jason! 
no Jason! Sir Condy! Sir Condy! Sir Condy Rackrent 
for ever ! ” And the mob grew so great and so loud, I was 
frightened, and made my way back to the house to warn 
my son to make his escape, or hide himself for fear of the 
consequences. Jason would not believe me till they came 
all round the house, and to the windows with great shouts. 
Then he grew quite pale, and asked Sir Condy what had 
he best do? 

“I’ll tell you what you had best do,” said Sir Condy, 
who was laughing to see his fright ; “finish your glass first, 
then let’s go to the window and show ourselves, and I’ll 
tell ’em — or you shall, if you please — that I’m going to the 
Lodge for change of air for my health, and by my own 
desire, for the rest of my days.” 

“Do so,” said Jason, who never meant it should have 
been so, but could not refuse him the Lodge at this un- 
seasonable time. Accordingly, Sir Condy threw up the 

55 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


sash and explained matters, and thanked all his friends, 
and bid them look in at the punch-bowl, and observe that 
Jason and he had been sitting over it very good friends; 
so the mob was content, and he sent them out some whisky 
to drink his health, and that was the last time his honour's 
health was ever drunk at Castle Rackrent. 

The very next day, being too proud, as he said to me, 
to stay an hour longer in a house that did not belong to 
him, he sets off to the Lodge, and I along with him not 
many hours after. And there was great bemoaning through 
all O’Shaughlin’s Town, which I stayed to witness, and 
gave my poor master a full account of when I got to the 
Lodge. He was very low, and in his bed, when I got 
there, and complained of a great pain about his heart ; but 
I guessed it was only trouble and all the business, let alone 
vexation, he had gone through of late ; and knowing the 
nature of him from a boy, I took my pipe, and whilst 
smoking it by the chimney began telling him how he was 
beloved and regretted in the county, and it did him a deal 
of good to hear it. 

“Your honour has a great many friends yet that you 
don’t know of, rich and poor, in* the county,’’ says I ; “for 
as I was coming along the road I met two gentlemen in 
their own carriages, who asked after you, knowing me, and 
wanted to know where you was and all about you, and 
even how old I was. Think of that.’’ 

Then he wakened out of his doze, and began questioning 
me who the gentlemen were. And the next morning it 
came into my head to go, unknown to anybody, with my 
master’s compliments, round to many of the gentlemen’s 
houses, where he and my lady used to visit, and people 
that I knew were his great friends, and would go to Cork 
to serve him any day in the year, and I made bold to try 
to borrow a trifle of cash from them. They all treated me 
very civil for the most part, and asked a great many ques- 
tions very kind about my lady and Sir Condy and all the 
family, and were greatly surprised to learn from me Castle 
Rackrent was sold, and my master at the Lodge for health ; 
and they all pitied him greatly, and he had their good wishes, 

56 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


if that would do ; but money was a thing they unfortunately 
had not any of them at this time to spare. I had my jour- 
ney for my pains, and I, not used to walking, nor supple 
as formerly, was greatly tired, but had the satisfaction of 
telling my master, when I got. to the Lodge, all the civil 
things said by high and low. 

“Thady,” says he, “all you’ve been telling me brings a 
strange thought into my head. I’ve a notion I shall not 
be long for this world anyhow, and I’ve a great fancy to 
see my own funeral afore I die.’’ I was greatly shocked, 
at the first speaking, to hear him speak so light about his 
funeral, and he to all appearance in good health ; but recol- 
lecting myself, answered : 

“To be sure it would be as fine a sight as one could see,’’ 
I dared to say, “and one I should be proud to witness,’’ and 
I did not doubt his honour’s would be as great a funeral as 
ever Sir Patrick O’Shaughlin’s was, and such a one as that 
had never been known in the county afore or since. But 
I never thought he was in earnest about seeing his own 
funeral himself till the next day he returns to it again. 

O “Thady,’’ says he, “as far as the wake* goes, sure I 
might without any great trouble have the satisfaction of 
seeing a bit of my own funeral.’’ 

“Well, since your honour’s honour’s so bent upon it,’’ 
says I, not willing to cross him, and he in trouble, “we 
must see what we can do.’’ 

So he fell into a sort of sham disorder, which was easy 
done, as he kept his bed, and no one to see him ; and I 
got my shister, who was an old woman very handy about 
the sick, and very skilful, to come up to the Lodge to nurse 
him ; and we gave out, she knowing no better, that he was 
just at his latter end, and it answered beyond anything; 
and there was a great throng of people, men, women, and 
childer, and there being only two rooms at the Lodge, 
except what was locked up full of Jason’s furniture and 
things, the house was soon as full and fuller than it could 

^ A “ wake” in England is a meeting avowedly for merriment ; in Ireland 
it is a nocturnal meeting avowedly for the purpose of watching and bewailing 
the dead, but in reality for gossiping and debauchery. See Glossary. 

57 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


hold, and the heat, and smoke, and noise wonderful great ; 
and standing amongst them that were near the bed, but 
not thinking at all of the dead, I was startled by the sound 
of my master’s voice from under the greatcoats that had 
been thrown all at top, and I went close up, no one 
noticing. 

“Thady,” says he, “I’ve had enough of this; I’m ‘ 
smothering, and can’t hear a word of all they’re saying of 
the deceased.” 

“God bless you, and He still and quiet,” says I, “a bit 
longer, for my shister’s afraid of ghosts, and would die on 
the spot with fright was she to see you come to life all on 
a sudden this way without the least preparation.” 

So he lays him still, though well nigh stifled, and I made 
all haste to tell the secret of the joke, whispering to one 
and t’other, and there was a great surprise, but not so great 
as we had laid out it would. “And aren’t we to have the 
pipes and tobacco, after coming so far to-night?” said 
some; but they were all well enough pleased when his 
honour got up to drink with them, and sent for more 
spirits from a shebeen-house,* where they very civilly let 
him have it upon credit. So the night passed off very 
merrily, but to my mind Sir Condy was rather upon the 
sad order in the midst of it all, not finding there had been 
such a great talk about himself after his death as he had 
always expected to hear./^ 

The next morning, when the house was cleared of them, 
and none but my shister and myself left in the kitchen with 
Sir Condy, one opens the door and walks in, and who 
should it be but Judy M ’Quirk herself! I forgot to notice 
that she had been married long since, whilst young Cap- 
tain Moneygawl lived at the Lodge, to the captain’s hunts- 
man, who after a whilst ’listed and left her, and was killed 
in the wars. Poor Judy fell off greatly in her good looks 
after her being married a year or two ; and being smoke- 
dried in the cabin, and neglecting herself like, it was hard 
for Sir Condy himself to know her again till she spoke; 

^ “ Shebeen-house,” a hedge alehouse. Shebeen properly means weak, 
small-beer, taplash. 


58 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


but when she says, “It’s Judy M ’Quirk, please your hon- 
our; don’t you remember her? ” 

“Oh, Judy, is it you? ’’ says his honour. “Yes, sure, I 
remember you very well; but you’re greatly altered, 
Judy.” 

“Sure it’s time for me,” says she. “And I think your 
honour, since I seen you last — but that’s a great while ago 
— is altered too.” 

“And with reason, Judy,” says Sir Condy, fetching a 
sort of a sigh. “But how’s this, Judy? ” he goes on. “I 
take it a little amiss of you that you were not at my wake 
last night.” 

“Ah, don’t be being jealous of that,” says she; “I didn’t 
hear a sentence of your honour’s wake till it was all over, 
or it would have gone hard with me but I would have been 
at it, sure ; but I was forced to go ten miles up the country 
three days ago to a wedding of a relation of my own’s, and 
didn’t get home till after the wake was over. But,” says 
she, “it won’t be so, I hope, the next time,* please your 
honour.” 

“That we shall see, Judy,” says his honour, “and maybe 
sooner than you think for, for I’ve been very unwell this 
while past, and don’t reckon anyway I m long for this 
world. ” 

At this Judy takes up the corner of her apron, and puts 
it first to one eye and then to t’other, being to all appear- 
ance in great trouble ; and my shister put in her word, and 
bid his honour have a good heart, for she was sure it was 
only the gout that Sir Patrick used to have flying about 
him, and he ought to drink a glass or a bottle extraordinary 
to keep it out of his stomach ; and he promised to take 
her advice, and sent out for more spirits immediately ; and 
Judy made a sign to me, and I went over to the door to 
her, and she said, “I wonder to see Sir Condy so low: has 
he heard the news? ” 



“What news?” says I. ” — 

^ At the coronation of one of our monarchs the King complained of the 
confusion which happened in the procession. The great officer who presided 
told his Majesty that “ it should not be so next time.” 


59 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


** Didn’t ye hear it, then? ” says she; “my Lady Rack- 
rent that was is kilt ' and lying for dead, and I don’t doubt 
but it’s all over with her by this time/* 

“Mercy on us all,’’ says I; “how was it?’’ 

“The jaunting-car it was that ran away with her,” says 
Judy. “I was coming home that same time from Biddy 
M’Guggin’s marriage, and a great crowd of people too upon 
the road, coming from the fair of Crookaghnawaturgh, and 
I sees a jaunting-car standing in the middle of the road, 
and with the two wheels off and all tattered. ‘What’s 
this? ’ says I. ‘Didn’t ye hear of it? ’ says they that were 
looking on; ‘it’s my Lady Rackrent's car, that was run- 
ning away from her husband, and the horse took fright at 
a carrion that lay across the road, and so ran away with 
the jaunting-car, and my Lady Rackrent and her maid 
screaming, and the horse ran with them against a car that 
was coming from the fair with the boy asleep on it, and the 
lady’s petticoat hanging out of the jaunting-car caught, 
and she was dragged I can’t tell you how far upon the 
road, and it all broken up with the stones just going to be 
pounded, and one of the road-makers, with his sledge- 
hammer in his hand, stops the horse at the last ; but my 
Lady Rackrent was all kilt and smashed, * and they lifted 
her into a cabin hard by, and the maid was found after 
where she had been thrown in the gripe of a ditch, her cap 
and bonnet all full of bog water, and they say my lady 
can’t live anyway.’ Thady, pray now is it true what I’m 
told for sartain, that Sir Condy has made over all to your 
son Jason? ” 

“All,” says 1. 

“All entirely? ” says she again. 

* See Glossary. 

* Kilt and smashed , — Our author is not here guilty of an anti-climax. The 
mere English reader, from a similarity of sound between the words “kilt” 
and “ killed,” might be induced to suppose that their meanings are similar, 
yet they are not by any means in Ireland synonymous terms. Thus you may 
hear a man exclaim, “I’m kilt and murdered !” but he frequently means 
only that he has received a black eye or a slight contusion. “ I’m kilt all 
over” means that he is in a worse state than being simply “kilt.” Thus, 
“I’m kilt with the cold,” is nothing to “I’m kilt all over with the 
rheumatism.” 


6o 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


**A11 entirely,” says I. 

”Then,” says she, “that’s a great shame; but don’t be 
telling Jason what I say.” 

“And what is it you say? ” cries Sir Condy, leaning over 
betwixt us, which made Judy start greatly. “I know the 
time when Judy M ’Quirk would never have stayed so long 
talking at the door and I in the house.” 

“Oh!” says Judy, “for shame. Sir Condy; times are 
altered since then, and it’s my Lady Rackrent you ought 
to be thinking of.” 

“And why should I be thinking of her, that’s not think- 
ing of me now? ” says Sir Condy. 

“No matter for that,” says Judy, very properly; “it’s 
time you should be thinking of her, if ever you mean 
to do it at all, for don’t you know she’s lying for 
death? ” 

“My Lady Rackrent! ” says Sir Condy, in a surprise; 
“why it’s but two days since we parted, as you very well 
know, Thady, in her full health and spirits, and she, and 
her maid along with her, going to Mount Juliet’s Town on 
her jaunting-car.” 

“She’ll never ride no more on her jaunting-car,” said 
Judy, “for it has been the death of her, sure enough.” 

“And is she dead then? ” says his honour. 

“As good as dead, I hear,” says Judy; “but there’s 
Thady here as just learnt the whole truth of the story as I 
had it, and it’s fitter he or anybody else should be telling 
it you than I, Sir Condy: I must be going home to the 
childer.” 

But he stops her, but rather from civility in him, as I 
could see very plainly, than anything else, for Judy was, 
as his honour remarked at her first coming in, greatly 
changed, and little likely, as far as I could see — though she 
did not seem to be clear of it herself — little likely to be my 
Lady Rackrent now, should there be a second toss-up to 
be made. But I told him the whole story out of the face, 
just as Judy had told it to me, and he sent off a messenger 
with his compliments to Mount Juliet’s Town that evening, 
to learn the truth of the report, and Judy bid the boy that 

6i 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


was going call in at Tim M’Enerney’s shop in O’Shaugh- 
lin’s Town and buy her a new shawd. 

“Do so,” said Sir Condy, “and tell Tim to take no 
money from you, for I must pay him for the shawl my- 
self.” At this my shister throws me over a look, and I 
says nothing, but turned the tobacco in my mouth, whilst 
Judy began making a many words about it, and saying 
how she could not be beholden for shawls to any gentle- 
man. I left her there to consult with my shister, did she 
think there was anything in it, and my shister thought I 
was blind to be asking her the question, and I thought my 
shister must see more into it than I did, and recollecting 
all past times and everything, I changed my mind, and 
came over to her way of thinking, and we settled it that 
Judy was very like to be my Lady Rackrent after all, if a 
vacancy should have happened. 

The next day, before his honour was up, somebody 
comes with a double knock at the door, and I was greatly 
surprised to see it was my son Jason. 

“Jason, is it you?” said I; “what brings you to the 
Lodge?” says I. “Is it my Lady Rackrent? We know 
that already since yesterday.” 

“Maybe so,” says he; “but I must see Sir Condy about 
it.” 

“You can’t see him yet,” says I ; “sure he is not awake.” 

“What then,” says he, “can’t he be wakened, and I 
standing at the door? ” 

“I’ll not be disturbing his honour for you, Jason,” says 
I ; “many’s the hour you’ve waited in your time, and been 
proud to do it, till his honour was at leisure to speak to 
you. His honour,” says I, raising my voice, at which his 
honour wakens of his own accord, and calls to me from the 
room to know who it was I was speaking to. Jason made 
no more ceremony, but follows me into the room. 

“How are you. Sir Condy?” says he; “I’m happy to 
see you looking sip well ; I came up to know how you did 
to-day, and to see did you want for anything at the Lodge.” 

“Nothing at all, Mr. Jason, I thank you,” says he; for 
his honour had his own share of pride, and did not choose, 

62 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


after all that had passed, to be beholden, I suppose, to my 
son; *‘but pray take a chair and be seated, Mr. Jason.” 

Jason sat him down upon the chest, for chair there was 
none, and after he had set there some time, and a silence 
on all sides, 

“What news is there stirring in the country, Mr. Jason 
M’ Quirk? ” says Sir Condy, very easy, yet high like. 

“None that’s news to you. Sir Condy, I hear,” says 
Jason. “I am sorry to hear of my Lady Rackrent’s acci- 
dent.” 

“I’m much obliged to you, and so is her ladyship. I’m 
sure,” answered Sir Condy, still stiff; and there was an- 
other sort of a silence, which seemed to lie the heaviest on 
my son Jason. 

“Sir Condy,” says he at last, seeing Sir Condy disposing 
himself to go to sleep again, “Sir Condy, I daresay you 
recollect mentioning to me the little memorandum you 
gave to Lady Rackrent about the ;^500 a year jointure.” 

“Very true,” said Sir Condy; “it is all in my recollec- 
tion.” 

“But if my Lady Rackrent dies, there’s an end of all 
jointure,” says Jason. 

“Of course,” says Sir Condy. 

“But it’s not a matter of certainty that my Lady Rack- 
rent won’t recover,” says Jason. 

“Very true, sir,” says my master. 

“It’s a fair speculation, then, for you to consider what 
the chance of the jointure of those lands, when out of 
custodiam, will be to you.” 

“Just five hundred a year, I take it, without any specu- 
lation at all,” said Sir Condy. 

“That’s supposing the life dropt, and the custodiam off, 
you know; begging your pardon, Sir Condy, who under- 
stands business, that is a wrong calculation.” 

“Very likely so,” said Sir Condy; “but, Mr. Jason, if 
you have anything to say to me this morning about it, I’d 
be obliged to you to say it, for I had an indifferent night’s 
rest last night, and wouldn’t be sorry to sleep a little this 
morning. ’ ’ 


63 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


have only three words to say, and those more of con- 
sequence to you. Sir Condy, than me. You are a little 
cool, I observe ; but I hope you will not be offended at 
what I have brought here in my pocket," and he pulls out 
two long rolls, and showers down golden guineas upon the 
bed. 

“What's this," said Sir Condy; “it’s long since — ’’ but 
his pride stops him. 

“All these are your lawful property this minute, Sir 
Condy, if you please," said Jason. 

“Not for nothing, I’m sure," said Sir Condy, and laughs 
a little. “Nothing for nothing, or I’m under a mistake 
with you, Jason.’’ 

“Oh, Sir Condy, we’ll not be indulging ourselves in any 
unpleasant retrospects," says Jason; “it’s my present in- 
tention to behave, as I’m sure you will, like a gentleman 
in this affair. Here’s two hundred guineas, and a third I 
mean to add if you should think proper to make over to me 
all your right and title to those lands that you know of.’’ 

“I’ll consider of it," said my master; and a great deal 
more, that I was tired listening to, was said by Jason, and 
all that, and the sight of the ready cash upon the bed, 
worked with his honour; and the short and the long of it 
was. Sir Condy gathered up the golden guineas, and tied 
them up in a handkerchief, and signed some paper Jason 
brought with him as usual, and there was an end of the 
business: Jason took himself away, and my master turned 
himself round and fell asleep again. 

I soon found what had put Jason in such a hurry to con- 
clude this business. The little gossoon we had sent off the 
day before with my master’s compliments to Mount J uliet’s 
Town, and to know how my lady did after her accident, 
was stopped early this morning, coming back with his an- 
swer through O’Shaughlin’s Town, at Castle Rackrent, by 
my son Jason, and questioned of all he knew of my lady 
from the servant at Mount Juliet’s Town ; and the gossoon 
told him my Lady Rackrent was not expected to live over 
night; so Jason thought it high time to be moving to the 
Lodge, to make his bargain with my master about the join- 

64 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


ture afore it should be too late, and afore the little gossoon 
should reach us with the news. My master was greatly 
vexed — that is, I may say, as much as ever I seen him — 
when he found how he had been taken in ; but it was some 
comfort to have the ready cash for immediate consumption 
in the house, anyway. 

And when Judy came up that evening, and brought the 
childer to see his honour, he unties the handkerchief, and 
— God bless him ! whether it was little or much he had, 
’twas all the same with him — he gives ’em all round guineas 
apiece. 

“Hold up your head,” says my shister to Judy, as Sir 
Condy was busy filling out a glass of punch for her eldest 
boy — “Hold up your head, Judy; for who knows but we 
may live to see you yet at the head of the Castle Rackrent 
estate? ” 

“Maybe so,” says she, “but not the way you are think- 
ing of.” 

I did not rightly understand which way Judy was looking 
when she made this speech till a while after. 

“Why, Thady, you were telling me yesterday that Sir 
Condy had sold all entirely to Jason, and where then does 
all them guineas in the handkerchief come from?’’ 

“They are the purchase-money of my lady’s jointure,” 
says I. 

Judy looks a little bit puzzled at this. “A penny for 
your thoughts, Judy,” says my shister; “hark, sure Sir 
Condy is drinking her health.” 

He was at the table in the room,* drinking with the 
exciseman and the gauger, who came up to see his honour, 
and we were standing over the fire in the kitchen. 

“I don’t much care is he drinking my health or not,” 
says Judy; “and it is not Sir Condy I’m thinking of, with 
all your jokes, whatever he is of me.” 

“Sure you wouldn’t refuse to be my Lady Rackrent, 
Judy, if you had the offer? ” says I. 

“But if I could do better! ” says she. 

“How better?” says I and my shister both at once. 

* Tht room — the principal room in the house. 

5 65 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


“How better? ” says she. “Why, what signifies it to be 
my Lady Rackrent and no castle? Sure what good is the 
car, and no horse to draw it?” 

“And where will ye get the horse, Judy?” says I. 

“Nevermind that,” says she; “maybe it is your own 
son Jason might find that.” • 

‘ ‘ J ason ! ’ ’ says I ; “ don’t be trusting to him, J udy . Sir 
Condy, as I have good reason to know, spoke well of you 
when Jason spoke very indifferently of you, Judy.” 

“No matter,” says Judy; “it’s often men speak the 
contrary just to what they think of us.” 

“And you the same way of them, no doubt,” answered 
I. ‘ ‘ Nay, don’t be denying it, J udy, for I think the better 
of ye for it, and shouldn’t be proud to call ye the daughter 
of a shister’s son of mine, if 1 was to hear ye talk ungrate- 
ful, and anyway disrespectful of his honour.” 

“What disrespect,” says she, “to say I’d rather, if it 
was my luck, be the wife of another man? ” 

“You’ll have no luck, mind my words, Judy,” says I; 
and all I remembered about my poor master’s goodness in 
tossing up for her afore he married at all came across me, 
and I had a choking in my throat that hindered me to say 
more. 

“Better luck, anyhow, Thady,” says she, “than to be 
like some folk, following the fortunes of them that have 
none left.” 

“Oh! King of Glory! ” says I, “hear the pride and un- 
gratitude of her, and he giving his last guineas but a 
minute ago to her childer, and she with the fine shawl on 
her he made her a present of, but yesterday ! ” 

“Oh, troth, Judy, you’re wrong now,” says my shister, 
looking at the shawl. 

“And was not he wrong yesterday, then,” says she, “to 
be telling me I was greatly altered, to affront me?” 

“But, Judy,” says I, “what is it brings you here then at 
all in the mind you are in; is it to make Jason think the 
better of you? ” 

“I’ll tell you no more of my secrets, Thady,” says she, 
“nor would have told you this much, had I taken you for 

66 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


such an unnatural fader as I find you are, not to wish your 
own son prefarred to another.” 

“Oh, troth, you are wrong now, Thady,” says my 
shister. 

Well, I was never so put to it in my life: between these 
womens, and my son and my master, and all I felt and 
thought just now, I could not, upon my conscience, tell 
which was the wrong from the right. So I said not a word 
more, but was only glad his honour had not the luck to 
hear all Judy had been saying of him, for I reckoned it 
would have gone nigh to break his heart ; not that I was 
of opinion he cared for her as much as she and my shister 
fancied, but the ungratitude of the whole from Judy might 
not plase him; and he could never stand the notion of 
not being well spoken of or beloved like behind his back. 
Fortunately for all parties concerned, he was so much 
elevated at this time, there was no danger of his under- 
standing anything, even if it had reached his ears. There 
was a great horn at the Lodge, ever since my master and 
Captain Moneygawl was in together, that used to belong 
originally to the celebrated Sir Patrick, his ancestor; and 
his honour was fond often of telling the story that he 
learned from me when a child, how Sir Patrick drank the 
full of this horn without stopping, and this was what no 
other man afore or since could without drawing breath. 
Now Sir Condy challenged the gauger, who seemed to 
think little of the horn, to swallow the contents, and had 
it filled to the brim with punch ; and the gauger said it was 
what he could not do for nothing, but he’d hold Sir Condy 
a hundred guineas he’d do it. 

“Done,” says my master; “I’ll lay you a hundred 
golden guineas to a tester* you don’t.’’ 

“Done,” says the gauger; and done and done’s enough 
between two gentlemen. The gauger was cast, and my 
master won the bet, and thought he’d won a hundred 

* Tester : sixpence ; from the French word tite, a head — a piece of silver 
stamped with a head, which in old French was called un testion, and which 
was about the value of an old English sixpence. “Tester” is used in 
Shakspeare, 


67 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


guineas, but by the wording it was adjudged to be only a 
tester that was his due by the exciseman. It was all one 
to him ; he was as well pleased, and I was glad to see him 
in such spirits again. 

The gauger — bad luck to him ! — was the man that next 
proposed to my master to try himself, could he take at a 
draught the contents of the great horn. 

“Sir Patrick’s horn! ’’ said his honour; “hand it to me: 
I’ll hold you your own bet over again I’ll swallow it.” 

“Done,’’ says the gauger; “I’ll lay ye anything at all 
you do no such thing.” 

“A hundred guineas to sixpence I do,” says he; “bring 
me the handkerchief.” I was loth, knowing he meant the 
handkerchief with the gold in it, to bring it out in such 
company, and his honour not very able to reckon it. 
“Bring me the handkerchief, then, Thady,” says he, and 
stamps with his foot; so with that I pulls it out of my 
greatcoat pocket, where I had put it for safety. Oh, how 
it grieved me to see the guineas counting upon the table, 
and they the last my master had ! Says Sir Condy to me, 
“Your hand is steadier than mine to-night, old Thady, and 
that’s a wonder ; fill you the horn for me. ” And so, wish- 
ing his honour success, I did ; but I filled it, little thinking 
of what would befall him. He swallows it down, and drops 
like one shot. We lifts him up, and he was speechless, and 
quite black in the face. We put him to bed, and in a short 
time he wakened, raving with a fever on his brain. He 
was shocking either to see or hear. 

“Judy! Judy! have you no touch of feeling? Won’t 
you stay to help us nurse him ? ’ ’ says I to her, and she 
putting on her shawl to go out of the house. 

“I’m frightened to see him,” says she, “and wouldn’t 
nor couldn’t stay in it; and what use? He can’t last till 
the morning.” With that she ran off. There was none 
but my shister and myself left near him of all the many 
friends he had. 

The fever came and went, and came and went, and lasted 
five days, and the sixth he was sensible for a few minutes, 
and said to me, knowing me very well, “I’m in a burning 

68 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


pain all withinside of me, Thady.” I could not speak, 
but my shister asked him would he have this thing or 
t’other to do him good? ‘*No,” says he, “nothing will do 
me good no more,’’ and he gave a terrible screech with the 
torture he wa^ in; then again a minute’s ease — ‘brought 
to this by drink,’’ says he. “Where are all the friends? — 
where’s Judy? Gone, hey? Ay, Sir Condy has been a 
fool all his days,’’ said he; and there was the last word he 
spoke, and died. He had but a very poor funeral after all. 

If you want to know any more. I’m not very well able 
to tell you ; but my Lady Rackrent did not die, as was 
expected of her, but was only disfigured in the face ever 
after by the fall and bruises she got; and she and Jason, 
immediately after my poor master’s death, set about going 
to law about that jointure; the memorandum not being on 
stamped paper, some say it is worth nothing, others again 
it may do; others say Jason won’t have the lands at any 
rate; many wishes it so. For my part. I’m tired wishing 
for anything in this world, after all I’ve seen in it; but I’ll 
say nothing — it would be a folly to be getting myself ill-will 
in my old age. Jason did not marry, nor think of marry- 
ing Judy, as I prophesied, and I am not sorry for it: who 
is? As for all I have here set down from memory and hear- 
say of the family, there’s nothing but truth in it from be- 
ginning to end. That you may depend upon, for where’s 
the use of telling lies about the things which everybody 
knows as well as I do? 

The Editor could have readily made the catastrophe of 
Sir Condy’s history more dramatic and more pathetic, if 
he thought it allowable to varnish the plain round tale of 
faithful Thady. He lays it before the English reader as a 
specimen of manners and characters which are perhaps un- 
known in England. Indeed, the domestic habits of no 
nation in Europe were less known to the English than 
those of their sister country, till within these few years. 

Mr. Young’s picture of Ireland, in his tour through that 
country, was the first faithful portrait of its inhabitants. 
All the features in the foregoing sketch were taken from 

69 


GLOSSARY 


the life, and they are characteristic of that mixture of 
quickness, simplicity, cunning, carelessness, dissipation, 
disinterestedness, shrewdness, and blunder, which, in dif- 
ferent forms and with various success, has been brought 
upon the stage or delineated in novels. 

It is a problem of difficult solution to determine whether 
a union will hasten or retard the amelioration of this coun- 
try. The few gentlemen of education who now reside in 
this country will resort to England. They are few, but 
they are in nothing inferior to men of the same rank in 
Great Britain. The best that can happen will be the intro- 
duction of British manufacturers in their places. 

Did the Warwickshire militia, who were chiefly artisans, 
teach the Irish to drink beer? or did they learn from the 
Irish to drink whisky? 


GLOSSARY. 

Some friends^ who have seen Thady's history since it has been 
printed^ have suggested to the Editor^ that many of the terms 
and idiomatic phrases^ with which it abounds^ could not be in- 
telligible to the English reader without further explanation. 
The Editor has therefore furnished the following Glossary. 

Page I. Monday morning. — Thady begins his memoirs of the 
Rackrent Family by dating Monday morning^ because no great 
undertaking can be auspiciously commenced in Ireland on any 
morning but Monday morning. “ Oh, please God we live till 
Monday morning, we’ll set the slater to mend the roof of the 
house. On Monday morning we’ll fall to, and cut the turf. 
On Monday morning we’ll see and begin mowing. On Monday 
morning, please your honour, we’ll begin and dig the potatoes,” 
etc. 

All the intermediate days, between the making of such 
speeches and the ensuing Monday, are wasted: and when Mon- 
day morning comes, it is ten to one that the business is deferred 
to the next Monday morning. The Editor knew a gentleman, 
who, to counteract this prejudice, made his workmen and 
labourers begin all new pieces of work upon a Saturday. 

70 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


T3,ge 3. Let alone the three kingdoms itself. — Let alone., in this 
sentence, means put out of\onsideration. The phrase, let alone., 
which is now used as the imperative of a verb, may in time be- 
come a conjunction, and may exercise the ingenuity of some 
future etymologist. The celebrated Horne Tooke has proved 
most satisfactorily, that the conjunction but comes from the im- 
perative of the Anglo-Saxon verb {beoutan) to be out ; also, that 
if comes from gif, the imperative of the Anglo-Saxon verb 
which signifies to give, etc. 

Page 4. Whillaluh, — Ullaloo, Gol, or lamentation over the 
dead — 

Magnoque ululante tumultu. — Virgil. 

Ululatibus omne 
Implevere nemus. — Ovid. 

A full account of the Irish Gol, or Ullaloo, and of the Caoi- 
nan or Irish funeral song, with its first semichorus, second 
semichorus, full chorus of sighs and groans, together with the 
Irish words and music, may be found in the fourth volume of 
the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy. For the advant- 
age of lazy readers, who would rather read a page than walk a 
yard, and from compassion, not to say sympathy, with their 
infirmity, the Editor transcribes the following passages: 

“ The Irish have been always remarkable for their funeral 
lamentations; and this peculiarity has been noticed by almost 
every traveller who visited them; and it seems derived from 
their Celtic ancestors, the primaeval inhabitants of this 
isle. . . . 

“ It has been affirmed of the Irish, that to cry was more nat- 
ural to them than to any other nation, and at length the Irish 
cry became proverbial. . . . 

“ Cambrensis in the twelfth century says, the Irish then 
musically expressed their griefs; that is, they applied the 
musical art, in which they excelled all others, to the orderly 
celebration of funeral obsequies, by dividing the mourners 
into two bodies, each alternately singing their part, and the 
whole at times joining in full chorus. . . . The body of 
the deceased, dressed in grave clothes, and ornamented with 
flowers, was placed on a bier, or some elevated spot. The 
relations and keeners (singing mourners') ranged themselves 

n 


GLOSSARY 


in two divisions, one at the head, and the other at the feet 
of the corpse. The bards and croteries had before prepared 
the funeral Caoinan. The chief bard of the head chorus 
began by singing the first stanza, in a low, doleful tone, 
which was softly accompanied by the harp: at the conclusion, 
the foot semichorus began the lamentation, or Ullaloo, from the 
final note of the preceding stanza, in which they were answered 
by the head semichorus; then both united in one general 
chorus. The chorus of the first stanza being ended, the chief 
bard of the foot semichorus began the second Gol or lamenta- 
tion, in which he was answered by that of the head; and then, 
as before, both united in the general full chorus. Thus alter- 
nately were the song and choruses performed during the night. 
The genealogy, rank, possessions, the virtues and vices of the 
dead were rehearsed, and a number of interrogations were ad- 
dressed to the deceased; as, Why did he die? If married, 
whether his wife was faithful to him, his sons dutiful, or good 
hunters or warriors ? If a woman, whether her daughters were 
fair or chaste ? If a young man, whether he had been crossed 
in love; or if the blue-eyed maids of Erin treated him with 
scorn ? ’ ’ 

We are told, that formerly the feet (the metrical feet) of the 
Caoinan were much attended to ; but on the decline of the Irish 
bards these feet were gradually neglected, and the Caoinan fell 
into a sort of slipshod metre amongst women. Each province 
had different Caoinans, or at least different imitations of the 
original. There was the Munster cry, the Ulster cry, etc. It 
became an extempore performance, and every set of keeners 
varied the melody according to their own fancy. 

It is curious to observe how customs and ceremonies degen- 
erate. The present Irish cry, or howl, cannot boast of such 
melody, nor is the funeral procession conducted with much 
dignity. The crowd of people who assemble at these funerals 
sometimes amounts to a thousand, often to four or five hundred. 
They gather as the bearers of the hearse proceed on their way, 
and when they pass through any village, or when they come 
near any houses, they begin to cry — Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! 
Agh! Agh! raising their notes from the first Oh! to the last 
Agh ! in a kind of mournful howl. This gives notice to the in- 
habitants of the village that a funeral is passings and immedi- 
ately they flock out to follow it. In the province of Munster it 


72 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


is a common thing for the women to follow a funeral, to join in 
the universal cry with all their might and main for some time, 
and then to turn and ask — “ Arrah! who is it that’s dead ? — who 
is it we’re crying for?” Even the poorest people have their 
own burying-places — that is, spots of ground in the churchyards 
where they say that their ancestors have been buried ever since 
the wars of Ireland; and if these burial-places are ten miles from 
the place where a man dies, his friends and neighbours take 
care to carry his corpse thither. Always one priest, often five 
or six priests, attend these funerals; each priest repeats a mass, 
for which he is paid, sometimes a shilling, sometimes half a 
crown, sometimes half a guinea, or a guinea, according to their 
circumstances, or, as they say, according to the ability of the 
deceased. After the burial of any very poor man, who has left 
a widow or children, the priest makes what is called a collection 
for the widow; he goes round to every person present, and each 
contributes sixpence or a shilling, or what they please. The 
reader will find in the note upon the word Wake, more particu- 
lars respecting the conclusion of the Irish funerals. 

Certain old women, who cry particularly loud and well, are in 
great request, and, as a man said to the Editor, ‘‘Every one 
would wish and be proud to have such at his funeral, or at that 
of his friends.” The lower Irish are wonderfully eager to at- 
tend the funerals of their friends and relations, and they make 
their relationships branch out to a great extent. The proof that 
a poor man has been well beloved during his life is his having a 
crowded funeral. To attend a neighbour’s funeral is a cheap 
proof of humanity, but it does not, as some imagine, cost 
nothing. The time spent in attending funerals may be safely 
valued at half a million to the Irish nation; the Editor thinks 
that double that sum would not be too high an estimate. The 
habits of profligacy and drunkenness which are acquired at 
wakes are here put out of the question. When a labourer, a 
carpenter, or a smith, is not at his work, which frequently hap- 
pens, ask where he is gone, and ten to one the answer is — ‘‘ Oh, 
faith, please your honour, he couldn’t do a stroke to-day, for 
he’s gone to the funeral.” 

Even beggars, when they grow old, go about begging for their 
own funerals ; that is, begging for money to buy a coffin, can- 
dles, pipes, and tobacco. For the use of the candles, pipes, 
and tobacco, see Wake. 


73 


GLOSSARY 


Those who value customs in proportion to their antiquity, and 
nations in proportion to their adherence to ancient customs, 
will doubtless admire the Irish Ullaloo^ and the Irish nation, for 
persevering in this usage from time immemorial. The Editor, 
however, has observed some alarming symptoms, which seem to 
prognosticate the declining taste for the Ullaloo in Ireland. In 
a comic theatrical entertainment, represented not long since on 
the Dublin stage, a chorus of old women was introduced, who 
set up the Irish howl round the relics of a physician, who is 
supposed to have fallen under the wooden sword of Harlequin. 
After the old women have continued their Ullaloo for a decent 
time, with all the necessary accompaniments of wringing their 
hands, wiping or rubbing their eyes with the corners of their 
gowns or aprons, etc., one of the mourners suddenly suspends 
her lamentable cries, and, turning to her neighbour, asks, 
“ Arrah now, honey, who is it we’re crying for ? ” 

Page 5. The tenants were sent away without their whisky. — It 
is usual with some landlords to give their inferior tenants a glass 
of whisky when they pay their rents. Thady calls it their 
whisky; not that the whisky is actually the property of the ten- 
ants, but that it becomes their right after it has been often given 
to them. In this general mode of reasoning respecting rights 
the lower Irish are not singular, but they are peculiarly quick 
and tenacious in claiming these rights. ‘ ‘ Last year your honour 
gave me some straw for the roof of my house and I expect your 
honour will be after doing the same this year.” In this manner 
gifts are frequently turned into tributes. The high and low are 
not always dissimilar in their habits. It is said, that the Sub- 
lime Ottoman Porte is very apt to claim gifts as tributes: thus it 
is dangerous to send the Grand Seignor a fine horse on his 
birthday one year, lest on his next birthday he should expect a 
similar present, and should proceed to demonstrate the reason- 
ableness of his expectations. 

Page 5. He demeaned himself greatly — ^means, he lowered or 
disgraced himself much. 

Page 6. Duty foivls., duty turkeys., and duty geese. — In many 
leases in Ireland, tenants were formerly bound to supply an 
inordinate quantity of poultry to their landlords. The Editor 


74 


CASTLE RACKRENT 

knew of thirty turkeys being reserved in one lease of a small 
farm. 

Page 6. English tenants. — An English tenant does not mean 
a tenant who is an Englishman, but a tenant who pays his rent 
the day that it is due. It is a common prejudice in Ireland, 
amongst the poorer classes of people, to believe that all tenants 
in England pay their rents on the very day when they become 
due. An Irishman, when he goes to take a farm, if he wants to 
prove to his landlord that he is a substantial man, offers to be- 
come an English tenant. If a tenant disobliges his landlord by 
voting against him, or against his opinion, at an election, the 
tenant is immediately informed by the agent that he must be- 
come an English tenant. This threat does not imply that he is 
to change his language or his country, but that he must pay all 
the arrear of rent which he owes, and that he must thence- 
forward pay his rent on that day when it becomes due. 

Page 6. Canting — does not mean talking or writing hypocrit- 
ical nonsense, but selling substantially by auction. 

Page 6. Duty work. — It was formerly common in Ireland to 
insert clauses in leases, binding tenants to furnish their landlords 
with labourers and horses for several days in the year. Much 
petty tyranny and oppression have resulted from this feudal 
custom. Whenever a poor man disobliged his landlord the 
agent sent to him for his duty work; and Thady does not ex- 
aggerate when he says, that the tenants were often called from 
their own work to do that of their landlord. Thus the very 
means of earning their rent were taken from them: whilst they 
were getting home their landlord’s harvest, their own was often 
ruined, and yet their rents were expected to be paid as punctu- 
ally as if their time had been at their own disposal. This 
appears the height of absurd injustice. 

In Esthonia, amongst the poor Sclavonian race of peasant 
slaves, they pay tributes to their lords, not under the name of 
duty work, duty geese, duty turkeys, etc., but under the name 
of righteousnesses. The following ballad is a curious specimen 
of Esthonian poetry: — 

This is the cause that the country is ruined, 

And the straw of the thatch is eaten away, 

75 


GLOSSARY 


The gentry are come to live in the land — 

Chimneys between the village, 

And the proprietor upon the white floor ! 

The sheep brings forth a lamb with a white forehead. 

This is paid to the lord for a righteousness sheep. 

The sow farrows pigs, 

They go to the spit of the lord. 

The hen lays eggs, 

They go into the lord’s frying-pan. 

The cow drops a male calf, 

That goes into the lord’s herd as a bull. 

The mare foals a horse foal, 

That must be for my lord’s nag. 

The boor’s wife has sons. 

They must go to look after my lord’s poultry. 

Page 7. Out of forty-nine suits which he had, he never lost one 
hut seventeen. — Thady’s language in this instance is a specimen of 
a mode of rhetoric common in Ireland. An astonishing assertion 
is made in the beginning of a sentence, which ceases to be in 
the least surprising, when you hear the qualifying explanation 
that follows. Thus a man who is in the last stage of staggering 
drunkenness will, if he can articulate, swear to you — “ Upon 
his conscience now, and may he never stir from the spot alive 
if he is telling a lie, upon his conscience he has not tasted a 
drop of anything, good or bad, since morning at-all-at-all, but 
half a pint of whisky, please your honour.” 

Page 8. Fairy-mounts — Barrows. It is said that these high 
mounts were of great service to the natives of Ireland when Ire- 
land was invaded by the Danes. Watch was always kept on 
them, and upon the approach of an enemy a fire was lighted to 
give notice to the next watch, and thus the intelligence was 
quickly communicated through the country. Some years ago, 
the common people believed that these barrows were inhabited 
by fairies, or, as they called them, by the good people. ” Oh, 
troth, to the best of my belief, and to the best of my judgment 
and opinion,” said an elderly man to the Editor, ” it was only 
the old people that had nothing to do, and got together, and 
were telling stories about them fairies, but to the best of my 
judgment there’s nothing in it. Only this I heard myself not 
very many years back from a decent kind of a man, a grazier, 
that, as he was coming just fair and easy [quietly') from the fair, 
with some cattle and sheep, that he had not sold, just at the 

76 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


church of , at an angle of the road like, he was met by a 

good-looking man, who asked him where he was going ? And 
he answered, ‘ Oh, far enough, I must be going all night.’ ‘No, 
that you mustn’t nor won’t (says the man), you’ll sleep with me 
the night, and you’ll want for nothing, nor your cattle nor sheep 
neither, nor your beast {horse) ; so come along with me. ’ With 
that the grazier lit {alighted) from his horse, and it was dark 
night; but presently he finds himself, he does not know in the 
wide world how, in a fine house, and plenty of everything to eat 
and drink; nothing at all wanting that he could wish for or 
think of. And he does not mind {recollect or know) how at last 
he falls asleep; and in the morning he finds himself lying, not 
in ever a bed or a house at all, but just in the angle of the road 
where first he met the strange man: there he finds himself lying 
on his back on the grass, and all his sheep feeding as quiet as 
ever all round about him, and his horse the same way, and the 
bridle of the beast over his wrist. And I asked him what he 
thought of it ; and from first to last he could think of nothing, 
but for certain sure it must have been the fairies that entertained 
him so well. For there was no house to see anywhere nigh 
hand, or any building, or barn, or place at all, but only the 
church and the mote {barrow). There’s another odd thing 
enough that they tell about this same church, that if any per- 
son’s corpse, that had not a right to be buried in that church- 
yard, went to be burying there in it, no, not all the men, 
women, or childer in all Ireland could get the corpse anyway 
into the churchyard ; but as they would be trying to go into the 
churchyard, their feet would seem to be going backwards in- 
stead of forwards; ay, continually backwards the whole funeral 
would seem to go ; and they would never set foot with the corpse 
in the churchyard. Now they say that it is the fairies do all 
this ; but it is my opinion it is all idle talk, and people are after 
being wiser now.” 

The country people in Ireland certainly had great admiration 
mixed with reverence, if not dread, of fairies. They believed 
that beneath these fairy-mounts were spacious subterraneous 
palaces, inhabited by the good people^ who must not on any ac- 
count be disturbed. When the wind raises a little eddy of dust 
upon the road, the poor people believe that it is raised by the 
fairies, that it is a sign that they are journeying from one of the 
fairies’ mounts to another, and they say to the fairies, or to 

77 


GLOSSARY 


the dust as it passes, “God speed ye, gentlemen; God speed ye.” 
This averts any evil that the good people might be inclined to do 
them. There are innumerable stories told of the friendly and 
unfriendly feats of these busy fairies; some of these tales are 
ludicrous, and some romantic enough for poetry. It is a pity 
that poets should lose such convenient, though diminutive ma- 
chinery. By the bye, Parnell, who showed himself so deeply 
“ skilled in faerie lore,” was an Irishman; and though he has 
presented his fairies to the world in the ancient English dress 
of “ Britain’s isle, and Arthur’s days,’’ it is probable that his 
first acquaintance with them began in his native country. 

Some remote origin for the most superstitious or romantic 
popular illusions or vulgar errors may often be discovered. In 
Ireland, the old churches and churchyards have been usually 
fixed upon as the scenes of wonders. Now antiquaries tell us, 
that near the ancient churches in that kingdom caves of various 
constructions have from time to time been discovered, which 
were formerly used as granaries or magazines by the ancient in- 
habitants, and as places to which they retreated in time of 
danger. There is (p. 84 of the R. I. A. Transactions for 1789) 
a particular account of a number of these artificial caves at the 
west end of the church of Killossy, in the county of Kildare. 
Under a rising ground, in a dry sandy soil, these subterraneous 
dwellings were found: they have pediment roofs, and they com- 
municate with each other by small apertures. In the Brehon 
laws these are mentioned, and there are fines inflicted by those 
laws upon persons who steal from the subterraneous granaries. 
All these things show that there was a real foundation for the 
stories which were told of the appearance of lights, and of the 
sounds of voices, near these places. The persons who had 
property concealed there, very willingly countenanced every 
wonderful relation that tended to make these places objects of 
sacred awe or superstitious terror. 

Page 8. Weed ashes . — By ancient usage in Ireland, all the 
weeds on a farm belonged to the farmer’s wife, or to the wife of 
the squire who holds the ground in his own hands. The great 
demand for alkaline salts in bleaching rendered these ashes no 
inconsiderable perquisite. 

Page 8. Sealing money . — Formerly it was the custom in Ireland 
for tenants to give the squire’s lady from two to fifty guineas as 

78 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


a perquisite upon the sealing of their leases. The Editor not 
very long since knew of a baronet’s lady accepting fifty guineas 
as sealing money, upon closing a bargain for a considerable 
farm. 

Page 9. Sir Murtagh grew mad — Sir Murtagh grew angry. 

Page 9. The whole kitchen was out on the stairs — means that all 
the inhabitants of the kitchen came out of the kitchen, and 
stood upon the stairs. These, and similar expressions, show 
how much the Irish are disposed to metaphor and amplification. 

Page II. Fining down the year' s rent . — When an Irish gentle- 
man, like Sir Kit Rackrent, has lived beyond his income, and 
finds himself distressed for ready money, tenants obligingly offer 
to take his land at a rent far below the value, and to pay him a 
small sum of money in hand, which they call fining down the 
yearly rent. The temptation of this ready cash often blinds the 
landlord to his future interest. 

Page II. Driver . — A man whp is employed to drive tenants 
for rent; that is, to drive the cattle belonging to tenants to 
pound. The office of driver is by no means a sinecure. 

Page 12. I thought to make him a priest . — It was customary 
amongst those of Thady’s rank in Ireland, whenever they could 
get a little money, to send their sons abroad to St. Omer’s, or 
to Spain, to be educated as priests. Now they are educated at 
Maynooth. The Editor has lately known a young lad, who be- 
gan by being a post-boy, afterwards turn into a carpenter, then 
quit his plane and work-bench to study his Humanities^ as he 
said, at the college of Maynooth ; but after he had gone through 
his course of Humanities, he determined to be a soldier instead- 
of a priest. 

Page 14. Flam . — Short for flambeau. 

Page 15. Barrack-room . — Formerly it was customary, in 
gentlemen’s houses in Ireland, to fit up one large bedchamber 
with a number of beds for the reception of occasional visitors. 
These rooms were called Barrack-rooms. 

Page 16. An innocent — in Ireland, means a simpleton, an idiot. 

Page 21. The Curragh — is the Newmarket of Ireland. 

79 


GLOSSARY 


Page 22. The cant. — The auction. 

Page 26. And so should cut him off for ever by levying a fine., 
and suffering a recovery to dock the entail. — The English reader 
may perhaps be surprised at the extent of Thady’s legal know- 
ledge, and at the fluency with which he pours forth law-terms; 
but almost every poor man in Ireland, be he farmer, weaver, 
shopkeeper, or steward, is, besides his other occupations, occa- 
sionally a lawyer. The nature of processes, ejectments, cus- 
todiams, injunctions, replevins, etc., is perfectly known to them, 
and the terms as familiar to them as to any attorney. They all 
love law. It is a kind of lottery, in which every man, staking 
his own wit or cunning against his neighbour’s property, feels 
that he has little to lose, and much to gain. 

“I’ll have the law of you, so I will! ’’ is the saying of an 
Englishman who expects justice. “I’ll have you before his 
honour,” is the threat of an Irishman who hopes for partiality. 
Miserable is the life of a justice of the peace in Ireland the day 
after a fair, especially if he resides near a small town. The 
multitude of the kilt {kilt does not mean killed., but hurt) and 
wounded who come before his honour with black eyes or bloody 
heads is astonishing: but more astonishing is the number of 
those who, though they are scarcely able by daily labour to pro- 
cure daily food, will nevertheless, without the least reluctance, 
waste six or seven hours of the day lounging in the yard or court 
of a justice of the peace, waiting to make some complaint about 
— nothing. It is impossible to convince them that time is money. 
They do not set any value upon their own time, and they think 
that others estimate theirs at less than nothing. Hence they 
make no scruple of telling a justice of the peace a story of an 
hour long about a tester (sixpence) ; and if he grows impatient, 
they attribute it to some secret prejudice which he entertains 
against them. 

Their method is to get a story completely by heart, and to tell 
it, as they call it, out of the face., that is, from the beginning to 
the end, without interruption. 

“ Well, my good friend, I have seen you lounging about these 
three hours in the yard; what is your business ? ” 

‘ ‘ Please your honour, it is what I want to speak one word to 
your honour.” 

“ Speak then, but be quick. What is the matter ? ” 

80 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


“ The matter, please your honour, is nothing at-all-at-all, 
only just about the grazing of a horse, please your honour, that 
this man here sold me at the fair of Gurtishannon last Shrove 
fair, which lay down three times with myself, please your 
honour, and kilt me; not to be telling your honour of how, no 
later back than yesterday night, he lay down in the house there 
within, and all the childer standing round, and it was God’s 
mercy he did not fall a-top of them, or into the fire to burn 
himself. So please your honour, to-day I took him back to this 
man, which owned him, and after a great deal to do, I got the 
mare again I swopped {exchanged) him for; but he won’t pay the 
grazing of the horse for the time I had him, though he promised 
to pay the grazing in case the horse didn’t answer; and he 
never did a day’s work, good or bad, please your honour, all 
the time he was with me, and I had the doctor to him five times 
anyhow. And so, please your honour, it is what I expect your 
honour will stand my friend, for I’d sooner come to your honour 
for justice than to any other in all Ireland. And so I brought 
him her6 before your honour, and expect your honour will make 
him pay me the grazing, or tell me, can I process him for it 
at the next assizes, please your honour ? ” 

The defendant now turning a quid of tobacco with his tongue 
into some secret cavern in his mouth, begins his defence with — 
“Please your honour, under favour, and saving your honour’s 
presence, there’s not a word of truth in all this man has been 
saying from beginning to end, upon my conscience, and I 
wouldn’t for the value of the horse itself, grazing and all, be 
after telling your honour a lie. For, please your honour, I 
have a dependence upon your honour that you’ll do me justice, 
and not be listening to him or the like of him. Please your 
honour, it’s what he has brought me before your honour, be- 
cause he had a spite against me about some oats I sold your 
honour, which he was jealous of, and a shawl his wife got at my 
shister’s shop there without, and never paid for; so I offered to 
set the shawl against the grazing, and give him a receipt in full 
of all demands, but he wouldn’t out of spite, please your 
honour; so he brought me before your honour, expecting your 
honour was mad with me for cutting down the tree in the horse 
park, which was none of my doing, please your honour — ill-luck 
to them that went and belied me to your honour behind my 
back! So if your honour is pleasing. I’ll tell you the whole 


6 


8i 


GLOSSARY 


truth about the horse that he swopped against my mare out of 
the face. Last Shrove fair I met this man, Jemmy Duffy, please 
your honour, just at the corner of the road, where the bridge is 
broken down, that your honour is to have the presentment for 
this year — long life to you for it! And he was at that time com- 
ing from the fair of Gurtishannon, and I the same way. ‘ How 
are you. Jemmy ? ’ says I. ‘ Very well, I thank ye kindly, 
Bryan,’ says he; ‘shall we turn back to Paddy Salmon’s and 
take a naggin of whisky to our better acquaintance ?’ ‘ I don’t 

care if I did. Jemmy,’ says I; ‘ only it is what I can’t take the 
whisky, because I’m under an oath against it for a month.’ 
Ever since, please your honour, the day your honour met me 
on the road, and observed to me I could hardly stand, I had 
taken so much; though upon my conscience your honour 
wronged me greatly that same time — ill-luck to them that belied 
me behind my back to your honour! Well, please your honour, 
as I was telling you, as he was taking the whisky, and we talk- 
ing of one thing or t’other, he makes me an offer to swop his 
mare that he couldn’t sell at the fair of Gurtishannon, because 
nobody would be troubled with the beast, please your honour, 
against my horse, and to oblige him I took the mare — sorrow 
take her! and him along with her! She kicked me a new car, 
that was worth three pounds ten, to tatters the first time I ever 
put her into it, and I expect your honour will make him pay me 
the price of the car, anyhow, before I pay the grazing, which 
I’ve no right to pay at-all-at-all, only to oblige him. But I 
leave it all to your honour; and the whole grazing he ought to 
be charging for the beast is but two and eightpence halfpenny, 
anyhow, please your honour. So I’ll abide by what your 
honour says, good or bad. I’ll leave it all to your honour.” 

I’ll leave it all to your honour — literally means. I’ll leave all 
the trouble to your honour. 

The Editor knew a justice of the peace in Ireland who had 
such a dread of having it all left to his honour^ that he frequently 
gave the complainants the sum about which they were disputing, 
to make peace between them, and to get rid of the trouble of 
hearing their stories out of the face. But he was soon cured of 
this method of buying off disputes, by the increasing multitude 
of those who, out of pure regard to his honour, came ” to get 
justice from him, because they would sooner come before him 
than before any man in all Ireland.” 


82 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


Page 36. A raking pot of tea. — We should observe, this cus- 
tom has long since been banished from the higher orders of Irish 
gentry. The mysteries of a raking pot of tea, like those of the 
Bona Dea, are supposed to be sacred to females; but now and 
then it has happened that some of the male species, who were 
either more audacious, or more highly favoured than the rest of 
their sex, have been admitted by stealth to these orgies. The 
time when the festive ceremony begins varies according to cir- 
cumstances, but it is never earlier than twelve o’clock at night; 
the joys of a raking pot of tea depending on its being made in 
secret, and at an unseasonable hour. After a ball, when the 
more discreet part of the company has departed to rest, a few 
chosen female spirits, who have footed it till they can foot it no 
longer, and till the sleepy notes expire under the slurring hand 
of the musician, retire to a bedchamber, call the favourite maid, 
who alone is admitted, bid her put down the kettle., lock the door, 
and amidst as much giggling and scrambling as possible, they get ♦ 
round a tea-table, on which all manner of things are huddled 
together. Then begin mutual railleries and mutual confidences 
amongst the young ladies, and* the faint scream and the loud 
laugh is heard, and the romping for letters and pocket-books 
begins, and gentlemen are called by their surnames, or by the 
general name of fellows! pleasant fellows! charming fellows! 
odious fellows! abominable fellows! and then all prudish de- 
corums are forgotten, and then we might be convinced how 
much the satirical poet was mistaken when he said — 

There is no woman where there’s no reserve. 


The merit of the original idea of a raking pot of tea evidently 
belongs to the washerwoman and the laundry-maid. But why 
should not we have Low life above stairs as well as High life 
below stairs ? 

Page 38. We gained the day by this piece of honesty. — In a dis- 
pute which occurred some years ago in Ireland, between Mr. E. 
and Mr. M., about the boundaries of a farm, an old tenant of 
Mr. M.’s cut a sod from Mr. M.’s land, and inserted it in a spot 
prepared for its reception in Mr. E.’s land; so nicely was it in- 
serted, that no eye could detect the junction of the grass. The 
old man, who was to give his evidence as to the property, stood 

83 


GLOSSARY 


upon the inserted sod when the viewers came, and swore that 
the ground he then stood upon belonged to his landlord, Mr. M. 

The Editor had flattered himself that the ingenious contriv- 
ance which Thady records, and the similar subterfuge of this 
old Irishman, in the dispute concerning boundaries, were in- 
stances of 'cuteness unparalleled in all but Irish story: an Eng- 
lish friend, however, has just mortified the Editor’s national 
vanity by an account of the following custom, which prevails in 
part of Shropshire. It is discreditable for women to appear 
abroad after the birth of their children till they have been 
churched. To avoid this reproach, and at the same time to en- 
joy the pleasure of gadding, whenever a woman goes abroad be- 
fore she has been to church, she takes a tile from the roof of her 
house, and puts it upon her head: wearing this panoply all the 
time she pays her visits, her conscience is perfectly at ease; for 
she can afterwards safely declare to the clergyman, that she 
“ has never been from under her own roof till she came to be 
churched.” 

Page 40. Carton., and half -carton. — Thady means cartron, and 
half-cartron. ” According to the old record in the black book 
of Dublin, a cantred is said to contain 30 villatas terras., which 
are also called quarters of land (quarterons, cartrons); every 
one of which quarters must contain so much ground as will pas- 
ture 400 cows, and 17 plough-lands. A knight’s fee was com- 
posed of 8 hydes, which amount to 160 acres, and that is 
generally deemed about a plough-land." 

The Editor was favoured by a learned friend with the above 
extract, from a MS. of Lord Totness’s in the Lambeth library. 

57. Wake. — A wake in England means a festival held 
upon the anniversary of the saint of the parish. At these 
wakes, rustic games, rustic conviviality, and rustic courtship, 
are pursued with all the ardour and all the appetite which ac- 
company such pleasures as occur but seldom. In Ireland a 
wake is a midnight meeting, held professedly for the indulgence 
of holy sorrow, but usually it is converted into orgies of unholy 
joy. When an Irish man or woman of the lower order dies, the 
straw which composed the bed, whether it has been contained 
in a bag to form a mattress, or simply spread upon the earthen 
floor, is immediately taken out of the house, and burned before 
the cabin door, the family at the same time setting up the death 

84 


CASTLE RACKRENT 


howl. The ears and eyes of the neighbours being thus alarmed, 
they flock to the house of the deceased, and by their vociferous 
sympathy excite and at the same time soothe the sorrows of the 
family. 

It is curious to observe how good and bad are mingled in 
human institutions. In countries which were thinly inhabited, 
this custom prevented private attempts against the lives of indi- 
viduals, and formed a kind of coroner’s inquest upon the body 
which had recently expired, and burning the straw upon which 
the sick man lay became a simple preservative against infection. 
At night the dead body is waked, that is to say, all the friends and 
neighbours of the deceased collect in a barn or stable, where the 
corpse is laid upon some boards, or an unhinged door, sup- 
ported upon stools, the face exposed, the rest of the body cov- 
ered with a white sheet. Round the body are stuck in brass 
candlesticks, which have been borrowed perhaps at five miles’ 
distance, as many candles as the poor person can beg or bor- 
row, observing always to have an odd number. Pipes and to- 
bacco are first distributed, and then, according to the ability of 
the deceased, cakes and ale, and sometimes whisky, are dealt to 
the company — 

Deal on, deal on, my merry men all, 

Deal on your cakes and your wine, 

For whatever is dealt at her funeral to-day 
Shall be dealt to-morrow at mine. 

After a fit of universal sorrow, and the comfort of a universal 
dram, the scandal of the neighbourhood, as in higher circles, 
occupies the company. The young lads and lasses romp with 
one another, and when the fathers and mothers are at last over- 
come with sleep and whisky (vino et somno)^ the youth become 
more enterprising, and are frequently successful. It is said 
that more matches are made at wakes than at weddings. 

Page 6o. Kilt . — This word frequently occurs in the preced- 
ing pages, where it means not killed., but much hurt. In Ire- 
land, not only cowards, but the brave “ die many times before 
their death.” — There killing is no murder. 


85 


i 






Zbc l£mli6b 
Com^die Ibumaine 


THE ABSENTEE 

I 


BY 

MARIA EDGEWORTH 










T r 


I 


< I 




‘ “ See the reward of all your services, indeed ! What 
an unreasonable, ungrateful man ! ” ’ 





Copyright, 1903, by 
The Century Co. 


Published^ October, ig93 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


From drawings by Chris Hammond 


< 


See the reward of all your services, indeed! 
What an unreasonable, ungrateful man! ’ ” Frontispiece 



FACING PAGE 


‘ MoRDICAI’s! ’ EXCLAIMED LORD ClONBRONY, WITH A 
SUDDEN BLUSH, WHICH HE ENDEAVOURED TO HIDE BY 
TAKING SNUFF ” . . . , 24 


First came in, hobbling, rank and gout; next, 

RANK AND GAMING ” ‘ 2o6 


As IT FLASHED ACROSS HER MIND, SHE STARTED BACK; 

HER FACE GREW CRIMSON, AND, IN THE SAME INSTANT, 

PALE AS DEATH ” 23O 

* But now, my charming Grace,’ said Lord Colam- 

BRE, KNEELING BESIDE HER ” 276 






THE ABSENTEE 


I 



THE ABSENTEE 


CHAPTER I. 

A re you to be at Lady Clonbrony’s gala next 
week?" said Lady Langdale to Mrs. Dareville, 
whilst they were waiting for their carriages in the 
crush-room of the opera house. 

"Oh yes! everybody’s to be there, I hear," replied 
Mrs. Dareville. "Your ladyship, of course?" 

"Why, I don’t know — if I possibly can. Lady Clon- 
brony makes it such a point with me, that I believe I must 
look in upon her for a few minutes. They are going to a 
prodigious expense on this occasion. Soho tells me the 
reception rooms are all to be new furnished, and in the 
most magnificent style." 

"At what a famous rate those Clonbronies are dashing 
on," said Colonel Heathcock. "Up to anything." 

"Who are they? — these Clonbronies, that one hears of 
so much of late?" said her Grace of Torcaster. "Irish 
absentees, I know. But how do they support all this 
enormous expense?" 

"The son will have a prodigiously fine estate when some 
Mr, Quin dies," said Mrs. Dareville. 

"Yes, everybody who comes from Ireland will have a 
fine estate when somebody dies," said her grace. "But 
what have they at present?" 

"Twenty thousand a year, they say," replied Mrs. 
Dareville. 

"Ten thousand, I believe," cried Lady Langdale. 
"Make it a rule, you know, to believe only half the world 
says." 

"Ten thousand, have they? — possibly," said her grace. 
"I know nothing about them — have no acquaintance 

3 


THE ABSENTEE 


among the Irish. Torcaster knows something of Lady 
Clonbrony ; she has fastened herself, by some means, upon 
him : but I charge him not to commit me. Positively, I 
could not for anybody — and much less for that sort of per- 
son — extend the circle of my acquaintance.” 

“Now that is so cruel of your grace,” said Mrs. Dare- 
ville, laughing, “when poor Lady Clonbrony works so 
hard, and pays so high, to get into certain circles.” 

“If you knew all she endures, to look, speak, move, 
breathe like an Englishwoman, you would pity her,” said 
Lady Langdale. 

“Yes, and you cawnt conceive the peens she teekes to talk 
of the teebles and cheers^ and to thank and, with so much 
teeste, to speak pure English,” said Mrs. Dareville. 

“Pure cockney, you mean,” said Lady Langdale. 

“But why does Lady Clonbrony want to pass for Eng- 
lish?” said the duchess. 

“Oh! because she is not quite Irish bred and born — only 
bred, not born,” said Mrs. Dareville. “And she could not 
be five minutes in your grace's company before she would 
tell you, that she was Henglish, born in Hoxfordshirey 

“She must be a vastly amusing personage. I should 
like to meet her, if one could see and hear her incog.,” said 
the duchess. “And Lord Clonbrony, what is he?” 

“Nothing, nobody,” said Mrs. Dareville; “one never 
even hears of him.” 

“A tribe of daughters, too, I suppose? ” 

“No, no,” said Lady Langdale, “daughters would be 
past all endurance.” 

“There’s a cousin, though, a Grace Nugent,” said Mrs. 
Dareville, “that Lady Clonbrony has with her.” 

“Best part of her, too,” said Colonel Heathcock; “d — d 
fine girl ! — never saw her look better than at the opera to- 
night ! ” 

Y mo. complexion ! as Lady Clonbrony says, when she 
means a high colour,” said Lady Langdale. 

“Grace Nugent is not a lady’s beauty,” said Mrs. Dare- 
ville. “Has she any fortune, colonel?” 

“*Pon honour, don’t know,” said the colonel. 


4 


THE ABSENTEE 


“There’s a son, somewhere, Is not there?” said Lady 
Langdale. 

“Don’t know, ’pon honour,’’ replied the colonel. 

“Yes — at Cambridge — not of age yet,” said Mrs. Dare- 
ville. “Bless me! here is Lady Clonbrony come back. I 
thought she was gone half an hour ago ! ” 

“Mamma,” whispered one of Lady Langdale’s daugh- 
ters, leaning between her mother and Mrs. Dareville, “who 
is that gentleman that passed us just now? ” 

“Which way? ” 

“Towards the door. There now, mamma, you can see 
him. He is speaking to Lady Clonbrony — to Miss Nugent. 
Now Lady Clonbrony is introducing him to Miss Broad- 
hurst.” 

“I see him now,” said Lady Langdale, examining him 
through her glass; “a very gentlemanlike-looking young 
man, indeed.” 

“Not an Irishman, I am sure, by his manner,” said her 
grace. 

“Heathcock!” said Lady Langdale, “who is Miss 
Broadhurst talking to?” 

“Eh! now really — ’pon honour — don’t know,” replied 
Heathcock. 

“And yet he certainly looks like somebody one certainly 
should know,” pursued Lady Langdale, “though I don’t 
recollect seeing him anywhere before.” 

“Really now!” was all the satisfaction she could gain 
from the insensible, immovable colonel. However, her 
ladyship, after sending a whisper along the line, gained 
the desired information, that the young gentleman was 
Lord Colambre, son, only son, of Lord and Lady Clon- i 
brony — that he was just come from Cambridge — that he 
was not yet of age — that he would be of age within a year 
— that he would then, after the death of somebody, come 
into possession of a fine estate, by the mother’s side — “and 
therefore, Cat’rine, my dear,” said she, turning round to 
the daughter, who had first pointed him out, “you under- 
stand, we should never talk about other people’s affairs.” 

“No, mamma, never. I hope to goodness, mamma, 

5 


THE ABSENTEE 


Lord Colambre did not hear what you and Mrs. Dareville 
were saying ! ” 

“How could he, child? He was quite at the other end 
of the world.” 

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, he was at my elbow, close 
behind us; but I never thought about him till I heard 
somebody say, ‘My lord ’ 

“Good heavens! I hope he didn’t hear.” 

“But, for my part, I said nothing,” cried Lady Lang- 
dale. 

“And for my part, I said nothing but what everybody 
knows!” cried Mrs. Dareville. 

“And for my part, I am guilty only of hearing,” said 
the duchess. “Do, pray. Colonel Heathcock, have, the 
goodness to see what my people are about, and what chance 
we have of getting away to-night.” 

“The Duchess of Torcaster’s carriage stops the way!” 
— a joyful sound to Colonel Heathcock and to her grace, 
and not less agreeable, at this instant, to Lady Langdale, 
who, the moment she was disembarrassed of the duchess, 
pressed through the crowd to Lady Clonbrony, and, ad- 
dressing her with smiles and complacency, was “charmed 
to have a little moment to speak to her — could not sooner 
get through the crowd — would certainly do herself the 
honour to be at her ladyship’s gala on Wednesday.’* 
While Lady Langdale spoke, she never seemed to see or 
think of anybody but Lady Clonbrony, though, all the 
time, she was intent upon every motion of Lord Colambre, 
and, whilst she was obliged to listen with a face of sym- 
pathy to a long complaint of Lady Clonbrony’s, about Mr. 
Soho’s want of taste in ottomans, she was vexed to per- 
ceive that his lordship showed no desire to be introduced 
to her, or to her daughters; but, on the contrary, was 
standing talking to Miss Nugent. His mother, at the end 
of her speech, looked round for Colambre — called him twice 
before he heard — introduced him to Lady Langdale, and 
to Lady Cat’rine, and Lady Anne , and to Mrs. Dare- 

ville ; to all of whom he bowed with an air of proud cold- 
ness, which gave them reason to regret that their remarks 

6 


THE ABSENTEE 


upon his mother and his family had not been made sotto 
voce, 

“Lady Langdale’s carriage stops the way!” Lord Co- 
lambre made no offer of his services, notwithstanding a 
look from his mother. Incapable of the meanness of 
voluntarily listening to a conversation not intended for 
him to hear, he had, however, been compelled, by the 
pressure of the crowd, to remain a few minutes stationary, 
where he could not avoid hearing the remarks of the fash- 
ionable friends. Disdaining dissimulation, he made no 
attempt to conceal his displeasure. Perhaps his vexation 
was increased by his consciousness that there was some 
mixture of truth in their sarcasms. He was sensible that 
his mother, in some points — her manners, for instance — 
was obvious to ridicule and satire. In Lady Clonbrony’s 
address there was a mixture of constraint, affectation, and 
indecision, unusual in a person of her birth, rank, and 
knowledge of the world. A natural and unnatural manner 
seemed struggling in all her gestures, and in every syllable 
that she articulated — a naturally free, familiar, good- 
natured, precipitate, Irish manner, had been schooled, and 
schooled late in life, into a sober, cold, still, stiff deport- 
ment, which she mistook for English. A strong, Hibernian 
accent, she had, with infinite difficulty, changed into an 
English tone. Mistaking reverse of wrong for right, she 
caricatured the English pronunciation; and the extraordi- 
nary precision of her London phraseology betrayed her not 
to be a Londoner, as the man, who strove to pass for an 
Athenian, was detected by his Attic dialect. Not aware 
of her real danger. Lady Clonbrony was, on the opposite 
side, in continual apprehension, every time she opened her 
lips, lest some treacherous a or e, some strong r, some 
puzzling aspirate, or non-aspirate, some unguarded note, 
interrogative or expostulatory, should betray her to be an 
Irishwoman. Mrs. Dareville had, in her mimicry, per- 
haps a little exaggerated as to the teehles and cheers, but 
still the general likeness of the representation of Lady 
Clonbrony was strong enough to strike and vex her son. 
He had now, for the first time, ^n opportunity of judging 

7 


THE ABSENTEE 


of the estimation in which his mother and his family were 
held by certain leaders of the ton, of whom, in her letters, 
she had spoken so much, and into whose society, or rather 
into whose parties, she had been admitted. He saw that 
the renegado cowardice, with which she denied, abjured, 
and reviled her own country, gained nothing but ridicule 
and contempt. He loved his mother; and, whilst he en- 
deavoured to conceal her faults and foibles as much as 
possible from his own heart, he could not endure those 
who dragged them to light and ridicule. The next morn- 
ing the first thing that occurred to Lord Colambre’s 
remembrance when he awoke was the sound of the con- 
temptuous emphasis which had been laid on the words 
IRISH ABSENTEES ! This led to recollections of his native 
country, to comparisons of past and present scenes, to 
future plans of life. Young and careless as he seemed. 
Lord Colambre was capable of serious reflection. Of 
naturally quick and strong capacity, ardent affections, im- 
petuous temper, the early years of his childhood passed at 
his father’s castle in Ireland, where, from the lowest serv- 
ant to the well-dressed dependant of the family, everybody 
had conspired to wait upon, to fondle, to flatter, to wor- 
ship, this darling of their lord. Yet he was not spoiled — 
not rendered selfish. For, in the midst of this flattery and 
servility, some strokes of genuine generous affection had 
gone home to his little heart; and, though unqualified 
submission had increased the natural impetuosity of his 
temper, and though visions of his future grandeur had 
touched his infant thought, yet, fortunately, before he 
acquired any fixed habits of insolence or tyranny, he was 
carried far away from all that were bound or willing to 
submit to his commands, far away from all signs of hered- 
itary grandeur — plunged into one of our great public schools 
— into a new world. Forced to struggle, mind and body, 
with his equals, his rivals, the little lord became a spirited 
schoolboy, and, in time, a man. Fortunately for him, 
science and literature happened to be the fashion among a 
set of clever young men with whom he was at Cambridge. 
His ambition for intellectual superiority was raised, his 

8 


THE ABSENTEE 


views were enlarged, his tastes and his manners formed. 
The sobriety of English good sense mixed most advantage- 
ously with Irish vivacity ; English prudence governed, but 
did not extinguish his Irish enthusiasm. But, in fact, 
English and Irish had not been invidiously contrasted in 
his mind : he had been so long resident in England, and so 
intimately connected with Englishmen, that he was not 
obvious to any of the commonplace ridicule thrown upon 
Hibernians; and he had lived with men who were too well 
informed and liberal to misjudge or depreciate a sister 
country. He had found, from experience, that, however 
reserved the English may be in manner, they are warm at 
heart ; that, however averse they may be from forming new 
acquaintance, their esteem and confidence once gained, 
they make the most solid friends. He had formed friend- 
ships in England ; he was fully sensible of the superior 
comforts, refinement, and information, of English society ; 
but his own country was endeared to him by early associa- 
tion, and a sense of duty and patriotism attached him to 
Ireland. And shall I too be an absentee? was a question 
which resulted from these reflections — a question which he 
was not yet prepared to answer decidedly. In the mean- 
time, the first business of the morning was to execute a 
commission for a Cambridge friend. Mr. Berryl had 
bought from Mr. Mordicai, a famous London coachmaker, 
a curricle, warranted sounds for which he had paid a sound 
price, upon express condition that Mr. Mordicai, barring 
accidents, should be answerable for all repairs of the curricle 
for six months. In three, both the carriage and body were 
found to be good for nothing — the curricle had been re- 
turned to Mr. Mordicai — nothing had since been heard of 
it, or from him — and Lord Colambre had undertaken to 
pay him and it a visit, and to make all proper inquiries. 
Accordingly, he went to the coachmaker’s, and, obtaining 
no satisfaction from the underlings, desired to see the head 
of the house. He was answered, that Mr. Mordicai was 
not at home. His lordship had never seen Mr. Mordicai; 
but, just then, he saw, walking across the yard, a man, 
who looked something like a Bond Street coxcomb, but 

9 


THE ABSENTEE 


not the least like a gentleman, who called, in the tone of a 
master, for “Mr. Mordicai’s barouche ! “ It appeared ; and 
he was stepping into it when Lord Colambre took the 
liberty of stopping him ; and, pointing to the wreck of Mr. 
Berryl’s curricle, now standing in the yard, began a state- 
ment of his friend’s grievances, and an appeal to common 
justice and conscience, which he, unknowing the nature of 
the man with whom he had to deal, imagined must be irre- 
sistible. Mr. Mordicai stood without moving a muscle of 
his dark wooden face. Indeed, in his face there appeared 
to be no muscles, or none which could move; so that, 
though he had what are generally called handsome feat- 
ures, there was, all together, something unnatural and 
shocking in his countenance. When, at last, his eyes 
turned, and his lips opened, this seemed to be done by 
machinery, and not by the will of a living creature, or from 
the impulse of a rational soul. Lord Colambre was so 
much struck with this strange physiognomy, that he 
actually forgot much he had to say of springs and wheels. 
But it was no matter. Whatever he had said, it would 
have come to the same thing; and Mordicai would have 
answered as he now did — 

“Sir, it was my partner made that bargain, not myself; 
and I don’t hold myself bound by it, for he is the sleeping 
partner only, and not empowered to act in the way of busi- 
ness. Had Mr. Berryl bargained with me, I should have 
told him that he should have looked to these things before 
his carriage went out of our yard.’’ 

The indignation of Lord Colambre kindled at these 
words — but in vain. To all that indignation could by 
word or look urge against Mordicai, he replied — 

“Maybe so, sir; the law is open to your friend — the law 
is open to all men who can pay for it.’' 

Lord Colambre turned in despair from the callous coach- 
maker, and listened to one of his more compassionate- 
looking workmen, who was reviewing the disabled curricle ; 
and, whilst he was waiting to know the sum of his friend’s 
misfortune, a fat, jolly, Falstaff looking personage came 
into the yard, accosted Mordicai with a degree of familiar- 

lO 


THE ABSENTEE 


ity, which, from a gentleman, appeared to Lord Colambre 
to be almost impossible. 

“How are you, Mordicai, my good fellow?” cried he, 
speaking with a strong Irish accent. 

“Who is this?” whispered Lord Colambre to the fore- 
man, who was examining the curricle. 

“Sir Terence O’Fay, sir. There must be entire new 
wheels.” 

“Now tell me, my tight fellow,” continued Sir Terence, 
holding Mordicai fast, “when, in the name of all the saints, 
good or bad, in the calendar, do you reckon to let us sport 
the suicide ? ’ ’ 

Mordicai forcibly drew his mouth into what he meant 
for a smile, and answered, “As soon as possible. Sir Ter- 
ence.” 

Sir Terence, in a tone of jocose, wheedling expostula- 
tion, entreated him to have the carriage finished out of 
hand, “Ah, now! Mordy, my precious! let us have it by 
the birthday, and come and dine with us o’ Monday, at 
the Hibernian Hotel — there’s a rare one — will you?” 

Mordicai accepted the invitation, and promised faithfully 
that the suicide should be finished by the birthday. Sir 
Terence shook hands upon this promise, and, after telling 
a good story, which made one of the workmen in the yard 
— an Irishman — grin with delight, walked off. Mordicai, 
first waiting till the knight was out of hearing, called 
aloud — 

“You grinning rascal! mind, at your peril, and don’t let 
that there carriage be touched, d’ye see, till further orders.” 

One of Mr. Mordicai’s clerks, with a huge long-feathered 
pen behind his ear, observed that Mr. Mordicai was right in 
that caution, for that, to the best of his comprehension. 
Sir Terence O’ Fay and his principal, too, were over head 
and ears in debt. 

Mordicai coolly answered that he was well aware of that ; 
but that the estate could afford to dip further; that, for 
his part, he was under no apprehension ; he knew how to 
look sharp, and to bite before he was bit. That he knew 
Sir Terence and his principal were leagued together to give 


XI 


THE ABSENTEE 


the creditors the go by^ but that, clever as they both were 
at that work, he trusted he was their match. 

“Will you be so good, sir, to finish making out this es- 
timate for me?” interrupted Lord Colambre. 

“Immediately, sir. Sixty-nine pound four, and the 

perch. Let us see Mr. Mordicai, ask him, ask Paddy, 

about Sir Terence,” said the foreman, pointing back over 
his shoulder to the Irish workman, who was at this moment 
pretending to be wondrous hard at work. However, when 
Mr. Mordicai defied him to tell him anything he did not 
know, Paddy, parting with an untasted bit of tobacco, 
began, and recounted some of Sir Terence O’Fay’s exploits 
in evading duns, replevying cattle, fighting sheriffs, bribing 
subs, managing cants, tricking custodees, in language so 
strange, and with a countenance and gestures so full of en- 
joyment of the jest, that, whilst Mordicai stood for a mo- 
ment aghast with astonishment. Lord Colambre could not 
help laughing, partly at, and partly with, his countryman. 
All the yard were in a roar of laughter, though they did 
not understand half of what they heard ; but their risible 
muscles were acted upon mechanically, or maliciously, 
merely by the sound of the Irish brogue. 

Mordicai, waiting till the laugh was over, dryly observed 
that “the law is executed in another guess sort of way in 
England from what it is in Ireland” ; therefore, for his part, 
he desired nothing better than to set his wits fairly against 
such sharks. That there was a pleasure in doing up a 
debtor which none but a creditor could know. 

“In a moment, sir; if you’ll have a moment’s patience, 
sir, if you please,” said the slow foreman to Lord Colam- 
bre; “I must go down the pounds once more, and then I’ll 
let you have it.” 

“I’ll tell you what, Smithfield,” continued Mr. Mordicai, 
coming close beside his foreman, and speaking very low, 
but with a voice trembling with anger, for he was piqued 
by his foreman’s doubts of his capacity to cope with Sir 
Terence O’Fay; “I’ll tell you what, Smithfield, I’ll be 
cursed, if I don’t get every inch of them into my power. 
You know how? ” 


12 


THE ABSENTEE 


“You are the best judge, sir,” replied the foreman; “but 
1 would not undertake Sir Terence; and the question is, 
whether the estate will answer the lot of the debts, and 
whether you know them all for certain? ” 

“I do, sir, I tell you. There’s Green — there’s Blancham 
— there’s Gray — there’s Soho — naming several more — and, 
to my knowledge, Lord Clonbrony ” 

“Stop, sir,” cried Lord Colambre in a voice which made 
Mordicai, and everybody present, start — am his son ” 

“The devil!” said Mordicai. 

“God bless every bone in his body, then ! — he’s an Irish- 
man,” cried Paddy; “and there was the rason my heart 
warmed to him from the first minute he come into the 
yard, though I did not know it till now.” 

“What, sir! are you my Lord Colambre?” said Mr. 
Mordicai, recovering, but not clearly recovering, his intel- 
lects. “I beg pardon, but I did not know you was Lord 
Colambre. I thought you' told me you was the friend of 
Mr. Berryl.” 

“I do not see the incompatibility of the assertion, sir,” 
replied Lord Colambre, taking from the bewildered fore- 
man’s unresisting hand the account, which he had been so 
long furnishing. 

“Give me leave, my lord,” said Mordicai. “I beg your 
pardon, my lord, perhaps we can compromise that business 
for your friend Mr. Berryl; since he is your lordship’s 
friend, perhaps we can contrive to compromise and split the 
difference. ’ ’ 

To compromise and split the difference^ Mordicai thought 
were favourite phrases, and approved Hibernian modes of 
doing business, which would conciliate this young Irish 
nobleman, and dissipate the proud tempest which had 
gathered and now swelled in his breast. 

“No, sir, no!” cried Lord Colambre, holding firm the 
paper. “I want no favour from you. I will accept of 
none for my friend or for myself.” 

“Favour! No, my lord, I should not presume to 

offer But I should wish, if you’ll allow me, to do 

your friend justice.” 


13 


THE ABSENTEE 


Lord Colambre recollecting that he had no right, in his 
pride, to fling away his friend’s money, let Mr. Mordicai 
look at the account ; and, his impetuous temper in a few 
moments recovered by good sense, he considered that, as 
his person was utterly unknown to Mr. Mordicai, no offence 
could have been intended to him, and that, perhaps, in 
what had been said of his father’s debts and distress, there 
might be more truth than he was aware of. Prudently, 
therefore, controlling his feelings, and commanding himself, 
he suffered Mr, Mordicai to show him into a parlour, to 
settle his friend’s business. In a few minutes the account 
was reduced to a reasonable form, and, in consideration of 
the partner’s having made the bargain, by which Mr. Mor- 
dicai felt himself influenced in honour, though not bound 
in law, he undertook to have the curricle made better than 
new again, for Mr. Berryl, for twenty guineas. Then came 
awkward apologies to Lord Colambre, which he ill endured. 

“Between ourselves, my lord,’’ continued Mordicai 

But the familiarity of the phrase, “Between ourselves’’ — 
this implication of equality — Lord Colambre could not 
admit ; he moved hastily towards the door and departed. 


CHAPTER IL 

F ull of what he had heard, and impatient to obtain 
further information respecting the state of his father’s 
affairs. Lord Colambre hastened home ; but his father 
was out, and his mother was engaged witn Mr. Soho, direct- 
ing, or rather being directed, how her apartments should 
be fitted up for her gala. As Lord Colambre entered the 
room, he saw his mother. Miss Nugent, and Mr. Soho, 
standing at a large table, which was covered with rolls of 
paper, patterns, and drawings of furniture : Mr. Soho was 
speaking in a conceited dictatorial tone, asserting that 
there was no “colour in nature for that room equal to the 
belly-d -the fawn*' ; which belly -o -the fawn he so pro- 
nounced that Lady Clonbrony understood it to be la belle 


THE ABSENTEE 


uniforme, and, under this mistake, repeated and assented 
to the assertion till it was set to rights, with condescending 
superiority, by the upholsterer. This first architectural 
upholsterer of the age, as he styled himself, and was univers- 
ally admitted to be by all the world of fashion, then, with 
full powers given to him, spoke en maitre. The whole face 
of things must be changed — there must be new hangings, 
new draperies, new cornices, new candelabras, new every- 
thing! 

The upholsterer’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, 

Glances from ceiling to floor, from floor to ceiling; 

And, as imagination bodies forth 

The form of things unknown, th’ upholsterer’s pencil 

Turns to shape and gives to airy nothing 

A local habitation and a name. 

Of the value of a NAME no one could be more sensible 
than Mr. Soho. 

“Your la'ship sees — this is merely a scratch of my pencil 
— your la’ship’s sensible — just to give you an idea of the 
shape, the form of the thing. You fill up your angles here 
with encoinieres — round your walls with the Turkish tent 
drapery — a fancy of my own — in apricot cloth, or crimson 
velvet, suppose, or en flute, in crimson satin draperies, 
fanned and riched with gold fringes, en suite — intermediate 
spaces, Apollo’s heads with gold rays — and here, ma’am, 
you place four chanceliHes, with chimeras at the corners, 
covered with blue silk and silver fringe, elegantly fanciful 
— with my STATIRA CANOPY here — light blue silk draperies 
— aerial tint, with silver balls — and for seats here, the 
SERAGLIO OTTOMANS,superfine scarlet — your paws — griffin 
— golden — and golden tripods, here, with antique cranes — 
and oriental alabaster tables here and there — quite appro- 
priate, your la’ship feels. 

“And — let me reflect. For the next apartment, it strikes 
me — as your la’ship don’t value expense — the Alhambra 
hangings — my own thought entirely. Now, before I unroll 
them. Lady Clonbrony, I must beg you’ll not mention 
I’ve shown them. I give you my sacred honour, not a 

15 


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soul has set eye upon the Alhambra hangings, except Mrs. 
Dareville, who stole a peep ; I refused, absolutely refused, 
the Duchess of Torcaster — but I can’t refuse your la’ship. 
So see, ma’am — (unrolling them) — scagliola porphyry col- 
umns supporting the grand dome — entablature, silvered 
and decorated with imitative bronze ornaments ; under the 
entablature, a valance in pelmets, of puffed scarlet silk, 
would have an unparalleled grand effect, seen through the 
arches — with the TREBISOND TRELLICE PAPER, would 
make a tout ensemble, novel beyond example. On that 
Trebisond trellice paper, I confess, ladies, I do pique 
myself. 

“Then, for the little room, I recommend turning it 
temporarily into a Chinese pagoda, with this Chinese pagoda 
paper, with the porcelain border, and josses, and jars, and 
beakers to match ; and I can venture to promise one vase 
of pre-eminent size and beauty. Oh, indubitably ! if your 
la’ship prefers it, you can have the Egyptian hieroglyphic 
paper, with the ibis border to match! The only objection 
is, one sees it everywhere — quite antediluvian — gone to the 

hotels even ; but, to be sure, if your la’ship has a fancy 

At all events, I humbly recommend, what her Grace of 
Torcaster longs to patronise, my MOON CURTAINS, with 
candlelight draperies. A demisaison elegance this — I hit 
off yesterday — and — true, your ia’ship’s quite correct — out 
of the common, completely. And, of course, you’d have 
the sphynx candelabras, and the Phcenix argands. Oh! 
nothing else lights now, ma’am ! Expense ! Expense of 
the whole ! Impossible to calculate here on the spot ! — but 
nothing at all worth your ladyship’s consideration! ’’ 

At another moment. Lord Colambre might have been 
amused with all this rhodomontade, and with the airs and 
voluble conceit of the orator; but, after what he had heard 
at Mr. Mordicai’s, this whole scene struck him more with 
melancholy than with mirth. He was alarmed by the pro- 
spect of new and unbounded expense; provoked, almost 
past enduring, by the jargon and impertinence of this up- 
holsterer; mortified and vexed to the heart to see his 
mother the dupe, the sport of such a coxcomb. 

i6 


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Prince of puppies! — Insufferable! — My own mother ” ! 
Lord Colambre repeated to himself, as he walked hastily 
up and down the room. 

“Colambre, won’t you let us have your judgment — your 
teeste ? ’ ’ said his mother. 

“Excuse me, ma’am. I have no taste, no judgment, in 
these things.’’ 

He sometimes paused, and looked at Mr. Soho with a 

strong inclination to But knowing that he should say 

too much, if he said anything, he was silent — never dared 
to approach the council table — but continued walking up 
and down the room, till he heard a voice, which at once 
arrested his attention, and soothed his ire. He approached 
the table instantly, and listened, whilst Grace Nugent said 
everything he wished to have said, and with all the pro- 
priety and delicacy with which he thought he could not 
have spoken. He leaned on the table, and fixed his eyes 
upon her — years ago, he had seen his cousin — last night, 
he had thought her handsome, pleasing, graceful — but 
now, he saw a new person, or he saw her in a new light. 
He marked the superior intelligence, the animation, the 
eloquence of her countenance, its variety, whilst alter- 
nately, with arch raillery or grave humour, she played off 
Mr. Soho, and made him magnify the ridicule, till it was 
apparent even to Lady Clonbrony. He observed the 
anxiety, lest his mother should expose her own foibles — 
he was touched by the respectful, earnest kindness — the 
soft tones of persuasion, with which she addressed his 
mother — the care not to presume upon her own influence 
— the good sense, the taste she showed, yet not displaying 
her superiority — the address, temper, and patience, with 
which she at last accomplished her purpose, and prevented 
Lady Clonbrony from doing anything preposterously ab- 
surd, CHT exorbitantly extravagant. 

Lord Colambre was actually sorry when the business was 
ended — when Mr. Soho departed — for Grace Nugent was 
then silent ; and it was necessary to remove his eyes from 
that countenance, on which he had gazed unobserved. 
Beautiful and graceful, yet so unconscious was she of her 

• 17 


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charms, that the eye of admiration could rest upon her 
without her perceiving it — she seemed so intent upon 
others as totally to forget herself. The whole train of 
Lord Colambre’s thoughts was so completely deranged 
that, although he was sensible there was something of im- 
portance he had to say to his mother, yet, when Mr. Soho’s 
departure left him opportunity to speak, he stood silent, 
unable to recollect anything but — Grace Nugent. 

When Grace Nugent left the room, after some minutes’ 
silence, and some effort. Lord Colambre said to his mother, 
“Pray, madam, do you know anything of Sir Terence 
O’Fay?’’ 

“ I !’ ’ said Lady Clonbrony, drawing up her head proudly ; 
“I know he is a person I cannot endure. He is no friend 
of mine, I can assure you — nor any such sort of person.’’ 

“I thought it was impossible!’’ cried Colambre, with 
exultation. 

“I only wish your father, Colambre, could say as much,” 
added Lady Clonbrony. 

Lord Colambre’s countenance fell again; and again he 
was silent for some time. 

“Does my father dine at home, ma’am? ” 

“I suppose not; he seldom dines at home.” 

“Perhaps, ma’am, my father may have some cause to be 
uneasy about ” 

“About?” said Lady Clonbrony, in a tone, and with a 
look of curiosity which convinced her son that she knew 
nothing of his debts or distresses, if he had any. “About 
what? ” repeated her ladyship. 

Here was no receding, and Lord Colambre never had 
recourse to artifice. 

“About his affairs, I was going to say, madam. But, 
since you know nothing of any difficulties or embarrass- 
ments, I am persuaded that none exist.” 

“Nay, I cawnt tell you that, Colambre. There are diffi- 
culties for ready money, I confess, when I ask for it, which 
surprise me often. I know nothing of affairs — ladies of a 
certain rank seldom do, you know. But, considering your 
father’s estate, and the fortune I brought him,” added her 

i8 


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ladyship, proudly, ‘H cawnt conceive it at all. Grace 
Nugent, indeed, often talks to me of embarrassments and 
economy; but that, poor thing, is very natural for her, 
because her fortune is not particularly large, and she has 
left it all, or almost all, in her uncle and guardian’s hands. 
I know she’s often distressed for odd money to lend me, 
and that makes her anxious.” 

“Is not Miss Nugent very much admired, ma’am, in 
London? ” 

“Of course — in the company she is in, you know, she 
has every advantage. And she has a natural family air of 
fashion — not but what she would have got on much better, 
if, when she first appeared in Lon’on, she had taken my 
advice, and wrote herself on her cards Miss de Nogent, 
which would have taken off the prejudice against the Iri- 
cism of Nugent, you know; and there is a Count de 
Nogent.” 

“I did not know there was any such prejudice, ma’am. i 
There may be among a certain set ; but, I should think,' 
not among well-informed, well-bred people.” 

“I <^^^your pawdon^ Colambre; surely I, that was born 
in England, an Henglish-woman bawn ! must be well in- 
fawmed on this pint, anyway.” 

Lord Colambre was respectfully silent. 

“Mother,” resumed he, “I wonder that Miss Nugent is 
not married ! ” 

“That is her own fau’t, entirely; she has refused very 
good offers — establishments that, I own, I think, as Lady 
Langdale says, I was to blame to allow her to let pass ; 
but young ledies, till they are twenty, always think they 
can do better. Mr. Martingale, of Martingale, proposed 
for her, but she objected to him on account of he’s being 
on the turf; and Mr. St. Albans’ £^QOO a year— because— 
I reelly forget what — I believe only because she did not like 
him — and something about principles. Now there is Colo- 
nel Heathcock, one of the most fashionable young men 
you see, always with the Duchess of Torcaster and that 
set— Heathcock takes a vast deal of notice of her, for 
him; and yet. I’m persuaded, she would not have him 

19 


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to-morrow, if he came to the pint, and for no reason, reelly 
now, that she can give me, but because she says he’s a cox- 
comb. Grace has a tincture of Irish pride. But, for my 
part, I rejoice that she is so difficult, for I don’t know what 
I should do without her.” 

“Miss Nugent is indeed — very much attached to you, 
mother, I am convinced,” said Lord Colambre, beginning 
his sentence with great enthusiasm, and ending it with 
great sobriety. 

“Indeed then, she’s a sweet girl, and I am very partial to 
her, there’s the truth,” cried Lady Clonbrony, in an un- 
disguised Irish accent, and with her natural warm manner. 
But a moment afterwards her features and whole form re- 
sumed their constrained stillness and stiffness, and, in her 
English accent, she continued — 

“Before you put my idees out of my head, Colambre, I 
had something to say to you — Oh ! I know what it was — 
we were talking of embarrassments — and I wished to do 
your father the justice to mention to you that he has been 
uncom^non liberal to me about this gala, and has reelly given 
me carte-blanche ; and I’ve a notion — indeed I know — that 
it is you, Colambre, I am to thank for this.” 

“Me! — ma’am 1 ” 

“ Yes ! Did not your father give you any hint? ” 

“No, ma’am ; I have seen my father but for half an hour 
since I came to town, and in that time he said nothing to 
me — of his affairs.” 

“But what I allude to is more your affair.” 

“He did not speak to me of any affairs, ma’am — he 
spoke only of my horses.” 

“Then I suppose my lord leaves it to me to open the 
matter to you. I have the pleasure to tell you, that we 
have in view for you — and I think I may say with more 
than the approbation of all her family — an alliance ” 

”Oh! my dear mother! you cannot be serious,” cried 
Lord Colambre; “you know I am not of years of discre- 
tion yet — I shall not think of marrying these ten years, at 
least.” 

“Why not? Nay, my dear Colambre, don’t go, I beg — 
20 


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I am serious, I assure you — and, to convince you of it, I 
shall tell you candidly, at once, all your father told me: 
that now you’ve done with Cambridge, and are come to 
Lon’on, he agrees with me in wishing that you should 
make the figure you ought to make, Colambre, as sole heir- 
apparent to the Clonbrony estate, and all that sort of thing. 
But, on the other hand, living in Lon’on, and making you 
the handsome allowance you ought to have, are, both to- 
gether, more than your father can afford, without incon- 
venience, he tells me.” 

“I assure you, mother, I shall be content ” 

“No, no; you must not be content, child, and you must 
hear me. You must live in a becoming style, and make a 
proper appearance. I could not present you to my friends 
here, nor be happy, if you did not, Colambre. Now the 
way is clear before you : you have birth and title, here is 
fortune ready made ; you will have a noble estate of your 
own when old Quin dies, and you will not be any en- 
cumbrance or inconvenience to your father or anybody. 
Marrying an heiress accomplishes all this at once; and the 
young lady is everything we could wish, besides — you will 
meet again at the gala. Indeed, between ourselves, she is 
the grand object of the gala; all her friends will come en 
masse, and one should wish that they should see things in 
proper style. You have seen the young lady in question, 
Colambre — Miss Broadhurst. Don’t you recollect the 
young lady I introduced you to last night after the opera? ” 

“The little, plain girl, covered with diamonds, who was 
standing beside Miss Nugent?” 

“In di’monds, yes. But you won’t think her plain 
when you see more of her — that wears off ; I thought her 
plain, at first — I hope ” 

“I hope,” said Lord Colambre, “that you will not take 
it unkindly of me, my dear mother, if I tell you, at once, 
that I have no thoughts of marrying at present — and that 
I never will marry for money. Marrying an heiress is not 
even a new way of paying old debts — at all events, it is 
one to which no distress could persuade me to have re- 
course; and as I must, if I outlive old Mr. Quin, have an 


THE ABSENTEE 


independent fortune, there is no occasion to purchase one 
by marriage/* 

“There is no distress, that I know of, in the case,*’ cried 
Lady Clonbrony. “Where is your imagination running, 
Colambre? But merely for your establishment, your inde- 
pendence.** 

“Establishment, I want none — independence I do de- 
sire, and will preserve. Assure my father, my dear mother ^ 
that I will not be an expense to him. I will live within the 
allowance he made me at Cambridge — I will give up half of 
it — I will do anything for his convenience — but marry for 
money, that I cannot do.** 

“Then, Colambre, you are very disobliging,** said Lady 
Clonbrony, with an expression of disappointment and dis- 
pleasure; “for your father says, if you don’t marry Miss 
Broadhurst, we can’t live in Lon’on another winter.’* 

This said — which, had she been at the moment mistress 
of herself, she would not have let out — Lady Clonbrony 
abruptly quitted the room. Her son stood motionless, 
saying to himself — 

“Is this my mother? — How altered ! ** 

The next morning he seized an opportunity of speaking 
to his father, whom he caught, with difficulty, just when 
he was going out, as usual, for the day. Lord Colambre, 
with all the respect due to his father, and with that affec- 
tionate manner by which he always knew how to soften the 
strength of his expressions, made nearly the same declara- 
tions of his resolution, by which his mother had been so 
much surprised and offended. Lord Clonbrony seemed 
more embarrassed, but not so much displeased. When 
Lord Colambre adverted, as delicately as he could, to the 
selfishness of desiring from him the sacrifice of liberty for 
life, to say nothing of his affections, merely to enable his 
family to make a splendid figure in London, Lord Clon- 
brony exclaimed, “That’s all nonsense! — cursed nonsense! 
That’s the way we are obliged to state the thing to your 
mother, my dear boy, because I might talk her deaf before 
she would understand or listen to anything else. But, for 
my own share, I don’t care a rush if London was sunk in 


22 


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the salt sea. Little Dublin for my money, as Sir Terence 
O'Fay says." 

"Who is Sir Terence O’ Fay, may I ask, sir? " 

"Why, don’t you know Terry? Ay, you’ve been so 
long at Cambridge, I forgot. And did you never see 
Terry? ’’ 

"I have seen him, sir — I met him yesterday at Mr. Mor- 
dicai’s, the coachmaker’s. ’’ 

" Mordicai’s !’’ exclaimed Lord Clonbrony, with a sudden 
blush, which he endeavoured to hide by taking snuff. "He 
is a damned rascal, that Mordicai! I hope you didn’t be- 
lieve a word he said — nobody does that knows him." 

"I am glad, sir, that you seem to know him so well, and 
to be upon your guard against him," replied Lord Colam- 
bre; "for, from what I heard of his conversation, when he 
was not aware who I was, I am convinced he would do you 
any injury in his power." 

"He shall never have me in his power, I promise him. 
We shall take care of that. But what did he say? " 

Lord Colambre repeated the substance of what Mordicai 
had said, and Lord Clonbrony reiterated — "Damned rascal ! 
— damned rascal! Fll get out of his hands; I’ll have no 
more to do with him." But, as he spoke, he exhibited 
evident symptoms of uneasiness, moving continually, and 
shifting from leg to leg like a foundered horse. 

He could not bring himself positively to deny that he 
had debts and difficulties ; but he would by no means open 
the state of his affairs to his son — "No father is called upon 
to do that," said he to himself; "none but a fool would 
do it." 

Lord Colambre, perceiving his father’s embarrassment, 
withdrew his eyes, respectfully refrained from all further 
inquiries, and simply repeated the assurance he had made 
to his mother, that he would put his family to no additional 
expense ; and that, if it was necessary, he would willingly 
give up half his allowance. 

"Not at all — not at all, my dear boy," said his father; 
"I would rather cramp myself than that you should be 
cramped, a thousand times over. But it i? all my Lady 

23 


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Clonbrony's nonsense. If people would but, as they 
ought, stay in their own country, live on their own estates, 
and kill their own mutton, money need never be wanting.” 

For killing their own mutton. Lord Colambre did not see 
the indispensable necessity; but he rejoiced to hear his 
father assert that people should reside in their own country. 

“Ay,” cried Lord Clonbrony, to strengthen his asser- 
tion, as he always thought it necessary to do, by quoting 
some other person’s opinion. “So Sir Terence O’Fay 
always says, and that’s the reason your mother can’t en- 
dure poor Terry. You don’t know Terry? No, you have 
only seen him ; but, indeed, to see him is to know him ; 
for he is the most off-hand, good fellow in Europe.” 

“I don’t pretend to know him yet,” said Lord Colambre. 
“I am not so presumptuous as to form my opinion at first 
sight.” 

“Oh, curse your modesty ! ” interrupted Lord Clonbrony ; 
“you mean, you don’t pretend to like him yet; but Terry 
will make you like him. I defy you not. I’ll introduce 
you to him — him to you, I mean — most warm-hearted, 
generous dog upon earth — convivial — jovial — with wit and 
humour enough, in his own way, to split you — split me if 
he has not. You need not cast down your eyes, Colambre. 
What’s your objection? ” 

“I have made none, sir; but, if you urge me, I can only 
say that, if he has all these good qualities, it is to be re- 
gretted that he does not look and speak a little more like 
a gentleman.” 

“A gentleman ! he is as much a gentleman as any of your 
formal prigs — not the exact Cambridge cut, maybe. Curse 
your English education! ’Twas none of my advice. I 
suppose you mean to take after your mother in the notion 
that nothing can be good, or genteel, but what’s English.” 

“Far from it, sir; I assure you, I am as warm a friend to 
Ireland as your heart could wish. You will have no reason, 
in that respect at least, nor, I hope, in any other, to curse 
my English education ; and, if my gratitude and affection 
can avail, you shall never regret the kindness and liberality 
with which you have, I fear, distressed yourself to afford 

24 


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me the means of becoming all that a British nobleman 
ought to be.” 

“Gad! you distress me now!” said Lord Clonbrony, 
“and I didn’t expect it, or I wouldn’t make a fool of my- 
self this way,” added he, ashamed of his emotion, and 
whiffling it off. “You have an Irish heart, that I see, 
which no education can spoil. But you must like Terry. 
I’ll give you time, as he said to me, when first he taught 
me to like usquebaugh. Good morning to you ! ” 

Whilst Lady Clonbrony, in consequence of her residence 
in London, had become more of a fine lady. Lord Clon- 
brony, since he left Ireland, had become less of a gentle- 
man. Lady Clonbrony, born an Englishwoman, disclaiming^ 
and disencumbering herself of all the Irish in town, had, 1 
by giving splendid entertainments, at an enormous expense, 
made her way into a certain set of fashionable company. 
But Lord Clonbrony, who was somebody in Ireland, who 
was a great person in Dublin, found himself nobody in 
England, a mere cipher in London. Looked down upon 
by the fine people with whom his lady associated, and 
heartily weary of them, he retreated from them altogether, 
and sought entertainment and self-complacency in society 
beneath him — indeed, both in rank and education, but in 
which he had the satisfaction of feeling himself the first 
person in company. Of these associates, the first in tal- 
ents, and in jovial profligacy, was Sir Terence O’ Fay — a 
man of low extraction, who had been knighted by an Irish 
lord-lieutenant in some convivial frolic. No one could tell . 
a good story, or sing a good song better than Sir Terence; I 
he exaggerated his native brogue, and his natural propens- 
ity to blunder, caring little whether the company laughed 
at him or with him, provided they laughed. “Live and 
laugh — laugh and live,” was his motto; and certainly he 
lived on laughing, as well as many better men can contrive 
to live on a thousand a year. 

Lord Clonbrony brought Sir Terence home with him 
next day to introduce him to Lord Colambre; and it hap- 
pened that on this occasion Terence appeared to peculiar 
disadvantage, because, like many other people, “II gatoit 

25 


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Tesprit qu’il avoit en voulant avoir celui qu’il n’avoit 
pas.” 

Having been apprised that Lord Colambre was a fine 
scholar, fresh from Cambridge, and being conscious of his 
own deficiencies of literature, instead of trusting to his 
natural talents, he summoned to his aid, with no small 
effort, all the scraps of learning he had acquired in early 
days, and even brought before the company all the gods 
and goddesses with whom he had formed an acquaintance 
at school. Though embarrassed by this unusual encum- 
brance of learning, he endeavoured to make all subservient 
to his immediate design, of paying his court to Lady Clon- 
brony, by forwarding the object she had most anxiously in 
view — the match between her son and Miss Broadhurst. 

“And so. Miss Nugent,” said he, not daring, with all 
his assurance, to address himself directly to Lady Clon- 
brony — “and so. Miss Nugent, you are going to have great 
doings, Tm told, and a wonderful grand gala. There’s 
nothing in the wide world equal to being in a good, hand- 
some crowd. No later now than the last ball at the Castle 
• — that was before I left Dublin, Miss Nugent — the apart- 
ments, owing to the popularity of my lady-lieutenant, was 
so throng — so throng — that I remember very well, in the 
doorway, a lady — and a very genteel woman she was too, 
though a stranger to me — saying to me, ‘Sir, your finger’s 
in my ear.’ ‘I know it, madam,’ says I, ‘but I can’t take 
it out till the crowd give, me elbow room.’ 

“But it’s gala I’m thinking of now. I hear you are to 
have the golden Venus, my Lady Clonbrony, won’t you? ” 

“Sir!” 

This freezing monosyllable notwithstanding. Sir Terence 
pursued his course fluently. “The golden Venus! — Sure, 
Miss Nugent, you, that are so quick, can’t but know I 
would apostrophise Miss Broadhurst that is, but that won’t 
be long so, I hope. My Lord Colambre, have you seen 
much yet of that young lady? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“Then I hope you won’t be long so. I hear great talk 
now of the Venus of Medicis, and the Venus of this and 

26 


THE ABSENTEE 


that, with the Florence Venus, and the sable Venus, and 
that other Venus, that’s washing of her hair, and a hun- 
dred other Venuses, some good, some bad. But, be that 
as it will, my lord, trust a fool — ye may, when he tells 
you truth — the golden Venus is the only one on earth 
that can stand, or that will stand, through all ages and 
temperatures; for gold rules the court, gold rules the 
camp, and men below, and heaven above.” 

“Heaven above! Take care, Terry! Do you know 
what you’re saying?’' interrupted Lord Clonbrony. 

“Do I? Don’t I? ” replied Terry. “Deny, if you please, 
my lord, that it was for a golden pippin that the three 
goddesses fit — and that the Hippomenes was about golden 
apples — and did not Hercules rob a garden for golden ap- 
ples? — and did not the pious Eneas himself take a golden 
branch with him, to make himself welcome to his father 
in hell?” said Sir Terence, winking at Lord Colambre. 

“Why, Terry, you know more about books than I should 
have suspected,” said Lord Clonbrony. 

“Nor you would not have suspected me to have such 
a great acquaintance among the goddesses neither, would 
you, my lord? But, apropos, before we quit, of what 
material, think ye, was that same Venus’s famous girdle, 
now, that made roses and lilies so quickly appear? Why, 
what was it, but a girdle of sterling gold. I’ll engage? — for 
gold is the only true thing for a young man to look after in 
a wife.” 

Sir Terence paused, but no applause ensued. 

“Let them talk of Cupids and darts, and the mother of 
the Loves and Graces. Minerva may sing odes and dytham- 
bricSy or whatsoever her wisdomship pleases. Let her sing, 
or let her say she’ll never get a husband in this world or 
the other, without she had a good thumping /or tin, and 
then she’d go off like wildfire.” 

“No, no, Terry, there you’re out; Minerva has too bad 
a character for learning to be a favourite with gentlemen,” 
said Lord Clonbrony. 

“Tut — Don’t tell me! — I’d get her off before you could 
say Jack Robinson, and thank you too, if she had fifty 

27 


THE ABSENTEE 


thousand down, or a thousand a year in land. Would you 
have a man so d — d nice as to balk when house and land is 
a-going — a-going — a-going! — because of the encumbrance 
of a little learning? I never heard that Miss Broadhurst 
was anything of a learned lady.” 

“Miss Broadhurst! ” said Grace Nugent; “how did you 
get round to Miss Broadhurst?” 

“Oh! by the way of Tipperary,” said Lord Colambre. 

“I beg your pardon, my lord, it was apropos to a good 
fortune, which, I hope, will not be out of your way, even 
if you went by Tipperary. She has, besides ;£‘ioo,ooo in 
the funds, a clear landed property of ;£‘io,ooo per annum. 
Well ! some people talk of morality, and some of religion, 
but give me a little snug PROPERTY. But, my lord, I’ve a 
little business to transact this morning, and must not be 
idling and indulging myself here.” So, bowing to the 
ladies, he departed. 

“Really, I am glad that man is gone,” said Lady Clon- 
brony. “What a relief to one’s ears ! I am sure I wonder, 
my lord, how you can bear to carry that strange creature 
always about with you — so vulgar as he is.” 

“He diverts me,” said Lord Clonbrony, “while many of 
your correct-mannered fine ladies or gentlemen put me to 
sleep. What signifies what accent people speak in that 
have nothing to say — hey, Colambre? ” 

Lord Colambre, from respect to his father, did not ex- 
press his opinion, but his aversion to Sir Terence O’Fay 
was stronger even than his mother’s; though Lady Clon- 
brony’s detestation of him was much increased by per- 
ceiving that his coarse hints about Miss Broadhurst had 
operated against her favourite scheme. 

The next morning, at breakfast. Lord Clonbrony talked 
of bringing Sir Terence with him that night to her gala. 
She absolutely grew pale with horror. 

“Good heavens! Lady Langdale, Mrs. Dareville, Lady 

Pococke, Lady Chatterton, Lady D , Lady G , his 

Grace of V ; what would they think of him ? And Miss 

Broadhurst to see him going about with my Lord Clon- 
brony!” — It could not be. No; her ladyship made the 

28 


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most solemn and desperate protestation, that she would 
sooner give up her gala altogether — tie up the knocker — say 
she was sick — rather be sick, or be dead, than be obliged 
to have such a creature as Sir Terence O’Fay at her gala. 

“Have it your own way, my dear, as you have every- 
thing else! ’’ cried Lord Clonbrony, taking up his hat, and 
preparing to decamp; “but, take notice, if you won't re- 
ceive him you need not expect me. So a good morning 
to you, my Lady Clonbrony. You may find a worse friend 
in need, yet, than that same Sir Terence O’Fay.’’ 

“I trust I shall never be in need, my lord,’’ replied her 
ladyship. “It would be strange, indeed, if I were, with 
the fortune I brought.’’ 

“Oh! that fortune of hers!” cried Lord Clonbrony, 
stopping both his ears as he ran out of the room; “shall I 
never hear the end of that fortune, when I’ve seen the end 
of it long ago? ” 

During this matrimonial dialogue, Grace Nugent and 
Lord Colambre never once looked at each other. Grace 
was very diligently trying the changes that could be made 
in the positions of a china-mouse, a cat, a dog, a cup, and 
a Brahmin, on the mantlepiece; Lord Colambre as dili- 
gently reading the newspaper. 

“Now, my dear Colambre,” said Lady Clonbrony, “put 
down the paper, and listen to me. Let me entreat you 
not to neglect Miss Broadhurst to-night, as I know that 
the family come here chiefly on your account.” 

“My dear mother, I never can neglect any deserving 
young lady, and particularly one of your guests; but I 
shall be careful not to do more than not to neglect, for I 
never will pretend what I do not feel.” 

“But, my dear Colambre, Miss Broadhurst is everything 
you could wish, except being a beauty.” 

“Perhaps, madam,” said Lord Colambre, fixing his eyes 
on Grace Nugent, “you think that I can see no farther 
than a handsome face?” 

The unconscious Grace Nugent now made a warm eulo- 
gium of Miss Broadhurst’s sense, and wit, and independ- 
ence of character. 


29 


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“I did not know that Miss Broadhurst was a friend of 
yours, Miss Nugent? ” 

“She is, I assure you, a friend of mine; and, as a proof, 
I will not praise her at this moment. I will go farther still 
— I will promise that I never will praise her to you till you 
begin to praise her to me.” 

Lord Colambre smiled, and now listened, as if he wished 
that Grace should go on speaking, even of Miss Broad- 
hurst. 

“That’s my sweet Grace!” cried Lady Clonbrony. 
“Oh! she knows how to manage these men — not one of 
them can resist her ! ’ ’ 

Lord Colambre, for his part, did not deny the truth of 
this assertion. 

“Grace,” added Lady Clonbrony, “make him promise 
to do as we would have him.” 

“No; promises are dangerous things to ask or to give,” 
said Grace. “Men and naughty children never make pro- 
mises, especially promises to be good, without longing to 
break them the next minute.” 

“Well, at least, child, persuade him, I charge you, to 
make my gala go off well. That’s the first thing we ought 
to think of now. Ring the bell ! And all heads and hands 
I put in requisition for the gala.” 


CHAPTER III. 

T he opening of her gala, the display of her splendid 
reception-rooms, the Turkish tent, the Alhambra, 
the pagoda, formed a proud moment to Lady Clon- 
brony. Much did she enjoy, and much too naturally, not- 
withstanding all her efforts to be stiff and stately, much 
too naturally did she show her enjoyment of the surprise 
excited in some and affected by others on their first 
entrance. 

One young, very young lady expressed her astonishment 
so audibly as to attract the notice of all the bystanders. 
Lady Clonbrony, delighted, seized both her hands, shook 

30 


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them, and laughed heartily ; then, as the young lady with 
her party passed on, her ladyship recovered herself, drew 
up her head, and said to the company near her — 

“ Poor thing! I hope I covered her little naivete properly? 
How NEW she must be! ” 

Then, with well-practised dignity, and half-subdued self- 
complacency of aspect, her ladyship went gliding about — 
most importantly busy, introducing my lady this to the 
sphynx candelabra, and my lady that to the Trebisond 
trellice; placing some delightfully for the perspective of 
the Alhambra; establishing others quite to her satisfaction 
on seraglio ottomans; and honouring others with a seat 
under the statira canopy. Receiving and answering com- 
pliments from successive crowds of select friends, imagining 
herself the mirror of fashion, and the admiration of the 
whole world, Lady Clonbrony was, for her hour, as happy 
certainly as ever woman was in similar circumstances. 

Her son looked at her, and wished that this happiness 
could last. Naturally inclined to sympathy, Lord Colam- 
bre reproached himself for not feeling as gay at this instant 
as the occasion required. But the festive scepe, the blazing 
lights, the “ universal hubbub,” failed to raise his spirits. 
As a dead weight upon them hung the remembrance 
of Mordicai’s denunciations; and, through the midst of 
this Eastern magnificence, this unbounded profusion, he 
thought he saw future domestic misery and ruin to those 
he loved best in the world. 

The only object present on which his eye rested with 
pleasure was Grace Nugent. Beautiful — in elegant and 
dignified simplicity — thoughtless of herself — yet with a 
look of thought, and with an air of melancholy, which ac- 
corded exactly with his own feelings, and which he believed 
to arise from the same reflections that had passed in his own 
mind. 

“Miss Broadhurst, Colambre! all the Broadhursts !” said 
his mother, wakening him, as she passed by, to receive 
them as they entered. Miss Broadhurst appeared, plainly 
dressed — plainly, even to singularity — without any dia- 
monds or ornament. 


31 


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“Brought Philippa to you, my dear Lady Clonbrony, 
this figure, rather than not bring her at all,” said puffing 
Mrs. Broadhurst; “and had all the difficulty in the world 
to get her out at all, and now Eve promised she shall stay 
but half an hour. Sore throat — terrible cold she took in 
the morning. I’ll swear for her, she’d not have come for 
any one but you.’’ 

The young lady did not seem inclined to swear, or even 
to say this for herself ; she stood wonderfully unconcerned 
and passive, with an expression of humour lurking in her 
eyes, and about the corners of her mouth; whilst Lady 
Clonbrony was “shocked,’’ and “gratified,’’ and “con- 
cerned,’’ and “flattered’’; and whilst everybody was hop- 
ing, and fearing, and busying themselves about her — “Miss 
Broadhurst, you’d better sit here!’’ — “Oh, for Heaven’s 
sake! Miss Broadhurst, not there!’’ “Miss Broadhurst, if 
you’ll take my opinion ’’ ; and “Miss Broadhurst, if I may 
advise ’’ 

“Grace Nugent! ’’ cried Lady Clonbrony — “Miss Broad- 
hurst always listens to you. Do, my dear, persuade Miss 
Broadhurst tQ take care of herself, and let us take her to 
the inner little pagoda, where she can be so warm and so 
retired — the very thing for an invalid. Colambre ! pioneer 
the way for us, for the crowd’s immense.’’ 

Lady Anne and Lady Catharine H , Lady Lang- 

dale’s daughters, were at this time leaning on Miss Nugent’s 
arm, and moved along with this party to the inner pagoda. 
There was to be cards in one room, music in another, danc- 
ing in a third, and, in this little room, there were prints 
and chess-boards, etc. 

“Here you will be quite to yourselves,’’ said Lady Clon- 
brony ; “let me establish you comfortably in this, which I 
call my sanctuary — my snuggery — Colambre, that little 
table! — Miss Broadhurst, you play chess? Colambre, 
you’ll play with Miss Broadhurst ’’ 

“I thank your ladyship,’’ said Miss Broadhurst, “but I 
know nothing of chess, but the moves. Lady Catharine, 
you will play, and I will look on.’’ 

Miss Broadhurst drew her seat to the fire ; Lady Cathar- 

32 


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ine sat down to play with Lord Colambre ; Lady Clonbrony 
withdrew, again recommending Miss Broadhurst to Grace 
Nugent’s care. After some commonplace conversation, 
Lady Anne H , looking at the company in the adjoin- 

ing apartment, asked her sister how old Miss Somebody 
was, who passed by. This led to reflections upon the 
comparative age and youthful appearance of several of 
their acquaintance, and upon the care with which mothers 
concealed the age of their daughters. Glances passed be- 
tween Lady Catharine and Lady Anne. 

“For my part,” said Miss Broadhurst, “my mother 
would labour that point of secrecy in vain for me; for I am 
willing to tell my age, even if my face did not tell it for 
me, to all whom it may concern. I am past three-and- 
twenty — shall be four-and-twenty the 5 th of next July.” 

“Three-and-twenty ! Bless me! I thought you were 
not twenty! ” cried Lady Anne. 

“Four-and-twenty next July ! — impossible! ” cried Lady 
Catharine. 

“Very possible,” said Miss Broadhurst, quite uncon- 
cerned. 

“Now, Lord Colambre, would you believe it? Can you 
believe it?” asked Lady Catharine. 

“Yes, he can,” said Miss Broadhurst. “Don’t you see 
that he believes it as firmly as you and I do? Why should 
you force his lordship to pay a compliment contrary to his 
better judgment, or to extort a smile from him under false 
pretences? 1 am sure he sees that you, ladies, and I trust 
he perceives that I, do not think the worse of him for 
this.” 

Lord Colambre smiled now without any false pretence ; 
and, relieved at once from all apprehension of her joining 
in his mother’s views, or of her expecting particular atten- 
tion from him, he became at ease with Miss Broadhurst, 
showed a desire to converse with her, and listened eagerly 
to what she said. He recollected that Grace Nugent had 
told him that this young lady had no common character; 
and, neglecting his move at chess, he looked up at Grace 
as much as to say, ''Draw her out, pray,” 

33 


3 


THE ABSENTEE 


But Grace was too good a friend to comply with that 
request ; she left Miss Broadhurst to unfold her own char- 
acter. 

“It is your move, my lord,” said Lady Catharine. 

“I beg your ladyship's pardon ” 

“Are not these rooms beautiful. Miss Broadhurst? ” said 
Lady Catharine, determined, if possible, to turn the con- 
versation into a commonplace, safe channel ; for she had 
just felt, what most of Miss Broadhurst 's acquaintance had 
in their turn felt, that she had an odd way of startling 
people, by setting their own secret little motives suddenly 
before them. 

“Are not these rooms beautiful? ” 

‘ ‘ Beautiful ! — Certainly. 

The beauty of the rooms would have answered Lady 
Catharine’s purpose for some time, had not Lady Anne 
imprudently brought the conversation back again to Miss 
Broadhurst. 

“Do your know. Miss Broadhurst,” said she, “that if I 
had fifty sore throats, I could not have refrained from my 
diamonds on this GALA night ; and such diamonds as you 
have ! Now, really, I could not believe you to be the same 
person we saw blazing at the opera the other night ! ” 

“Really! could not you. Lady Anne? That is the very 
thing that entertains me. I only wish that I could lay 
aside my fortune sometimes, as well as my diamonds, and 
see how few people would know me then. Might not I, 
Grace, by the golden rule, which, next to practice, is the 
best rule in the world, calculate and answer that question? ” 

“I am persuaded,” said Lord Colambre, “that Miss 
Broadhurst has friends on whom the experiment would 
make no difference.” 

“I am convinced of it,” said Miss Broadhurst; “and 
that is what makes me tolerably happy, though I have the 
misfortune to be an heiress.” 

“That is the oddest speech,” said Lady Anne. “Now 
I should so like to be a great heiress, and to have, like you, 
such thousands and thousands at command.” 

“And what can the thousands upon thousands do for 

34 


THE ABSENTEE 


me? Hearts, you know, Lady Anne, are to be won only 
by radiant eyes. Bought hearts your ladyship certainly 
would not recommend. They're such poor things — no 
wear at all. Turn them which way you will, you can make 
nothing of them.” 

“You’ve tried then, have you? ” said Lady Catharine. 

“To my cost. Very nearly taken in by them half a 
dozen tim'es ; for they are brought to me by dozens ; and 
they are so made up for sale, and the people do so swear 
to you that it’s real, real love, and it looks so like it; and, 
if you stoop to examine it, you hear it pressed upon you 
by such elegant oaths — By all that’s lovely! — By all my 
hopes of happiness! — By your own charming self! Why, 
what can one do but look like a fool, and believe; for these 
men, at the time, all look so like gentlemen, that one can- 
not bring oneself flatly to tell them that they are cheats 
and swindlers, that they are perjuring their precious souls. 
Besides, to call a lover a perjured creature is to encourage 
him. He would have a right to complain if you went back 
after that.” 

“Oh dear! what a move was there! ” cried Lady Cathar- 
ine. “Miss Broadhurst is so entertaining to-night, not- 
withstanding her sore throat, that one can positively attend 
to nothing else. And she talks of love and lovers too with 
such connoissance de fait — counts her lovers by dozens, tied 
up in true-lovers’ knots! ” 

“Lovers! — no, no! Did I say lovers? — suitors I should 
have said. There’s nothing less like a Ibver, a true lover, 
than a suitor, as all the world knows, ever since the days 
of Penelope. Dozens ! — never had a lover in my life ! And 
fear, with much reason,! never shall have one to my mind.” 

“My lord, you’ve given up the game,” cried Lady 
Catharine; “but you make no battle.” 

“It would be so vain to combat against your ladyship,” 
said Lord Colambre, rising, and bowing politely to Lady 
Catharine, but turning the next instant to converse with 
Miss Broadhurst. 

“But when I talked of liking to be an heiress,” said 
Lady Anne, “I was not thinking of lovers.” 

35 


THE ABSENTEE 


'‘Certainly. One is not always thinking of lovers, you 
• know,” added Lady Catharine. 

“Not always,” replied Miss Broadhurst. “Well, lovers 
out of the question on all sides, what would your ladyship 
buy with the thousands upon thousands?” 

“Oh, everything, if I were you,” said Lady Anne. 

“Rank, to begin with,” said Lady Catharine. 

“Still my old objection — bought rank is but a shabby 
thing.” 

“But there is so little difference made between bought 
and hereditary rank in these days,” said Lady Catharine. 

“I see a great deal still,” said Miss Broadhurst; “so 
much, that I would never buy a title.” 

“A title without birth, to be sure,” said Lady Anne, 
“would not be so well worth buying; and as birth certainly 
is not to be bought ” 

“And even birth, were it to be bought, I would not 
buy,” said Miss Broadhurst, “unless I could be sure to 
have with it all the politeness, all the noble sentiments, all 
the magnanimity — in short, all that should grace and dig- 
nify high birth.” 

“Admirable!” said Lord Colambre. Grace Nugent 
smiled. 

“Lord Colambre, will you have the goodness to put my 
mother in mind I must go away?” 

“lam bound to obey, but I am very sorry for it,” said 
his lordship. 

“Are we to haVe any dancing to-night, I wonder? ” said 
Lady Catharine. “Miss Nugent, Tam afraid we have 
made Miss Broadhurst talk so much, in spite of her hoarse- 
ness, that Lady Clonbrony will be quite angry with us. 
And here she comes ! ” 

My Lady Clonbrony came to hope, to beg, that Miss 
Broadhurst would not think of running away; but Miss 
Broadhurst could not be prevailed upon to stay. Lady 
Clonbrony was delighted to see that her son assisted Grace 
Nugent most carefully in shawling Miss Broadhurst; his 
lordship conducted her to her carriage, and his mother 
drew many happy auguries from the gallantry of his man- 

36 


THE ABSENTEE 


ner, and from the young lady's having stayed three- 
quarters, instead of half an hour — a circumstance which 
Lady Catharine did not fail to remark. 

The dancing, which, under various pretences. Lady 
Clonbrony had delayed till Lord Colambre was at liberty, 
began immediately after Miss Broadhurst’s departure; and 
the chalked mosaic pavement of the Alhambra was, in a 
few minutes, effaced by the dancers’ feet. How transient 
are all human joys, especially those of vanity! Even on 
this long meditated, this long desired, this gala night. Lady 
Clonbrony found her triumph incomplete — inadequate to 
her expectations. For the first hour all had been compli- 
ment, success, and smiles; presently came the buts, and 
the hesitated objections, and the ‘‘damning with faint 
praise.” All that could be borne. Everybody has his 
taste — and one person’s taste is as good as another’s; and 
while she had Mr. Soho to cite. Lady Clonbrony thought 
she might be well satisfied. But she could not be satis- 
fied with Colonel Heathcock, who, dressed in black, had 
stretched his ‘‘fashionable length of limb” under the statira 
canopy upon the snow-white swan-down couch. When, 
after having monopolised attention, and been the subject 
of much bad wit, about black swans and rare birds, and 
swans being geese and geese being swans, the colonel con- 
descended to rise, and, as Mrs. Dareville said, to vacate his 
couch, that couch was no longer white — the black impres- 
sion of the colonel remained on the sullied snow. 

‘‘Eh, now! really didn’t recollect I was in black,” was 
all the apology he made. Lady Clonbrony was particu- 
larly vexed that the appearance of the statira canopy 
should be spoiled before the effect had been seen by Lady 

Pococke, and Lady Chatterton, and Lady G , Lady 

P , and the Duke of V , and a party of superlative 

fashionables, who had promised to look in upon her^ but 
who, late as it was, had not yet arrived. They came in at 
last. But Lady Clonbrony had no reason to regret for 
their sake the statira couch. It would have been lost upon 
them, as was everything else which she had prepared with 
so much pains and cost to excite their admiration. They 

37 


THE-ABSENTEE 


came resolute not to admire. Skilled in the art of making 
others unhappy, they just looked round with an air of 
apathy. ‘‘Ah! you’ve had Soho! — Soho has done won- 
ders for you here! — Vastly well! — Vastly well! — Soho’s 
very clever in his way ! ” 

Others of great importance came in, full of some slight 
accident that had happened to themselves, or their horses, 
or their carriages; and, with privileged selfishness, en- 
grossed the attention of all within their sphere of conversa- 
tion. Well, Lady Clonbrony got over all this, and got 
over the history of a letter about a chimney that was on 

fire, a week ago, at the Duke of V ’s old house, in 

Brecknockshire. In gratitude for the smiling patience with 

which she listened to him, his Grace of V fixed his 

glass to look at the Alhambra, and had just pronounced it 
to be “Well! — very well! ’’ when the Dowager Lady Chat- 
terton made a terrible discovery — a discovery that filled 
Lady Clonbrony with astonishment and indignation— Mr. 
Soho had played her false! What was her mortification 
when the dowager assured her that these identical Alham- 
bra hangings had not only been shown by Mr. Soho to the 
Duchess of Torcaster, but that her grace had had the re- 
fusal of them, and had actually rejected them, in conse- 
quence of Sir Horace Grant the great traveller’s objecting 
to some of the proportions of the pillars. Soho had engaged 
to make a new set, vastly improved, by Sir Horace’s sug- 
gestions, for her Grace of Torcaster. 

Now Lady Chatterton was the greatest talker extant; 
and she went about the rooms telling everybody of her 
acquaintance — and she was acquainted with everybody — 
how shamefully Soho had imposed upon poor Lady Clon- 
brony, protesting she could not forgive the man. “For,” 
said she, “though the Duchess of Torcaster has been his 
constant customer for ages, and his patroness, and all that, 
yet this does not excuse him — and Lady Clonbrony’s being 
a stranger, and from Ireland, makes the thing worse.” 
From Ireland! — that was the unkindest cut of all — but 
there was no remedy. 

In vain poor Lady Clonbrony followed the dowager 

38 


THE ABSENTEE 


about the rooms, to correct this mistake, and to represent, 
in justice to Mr. Soho, though he had used her so ill, that 
he knew she was an Englishwoman. The dowager was 
deaf, and no whisper could reach her ear. And when 
Lady Clonbrony was obliged to bawl an explanation in her 
ear, the dowager only repeated — 

“In justice to Mr. Soho! — No, no; he has not done you 
justice, my dear Lady Clonbrony! and I’ll expose him to 
everybody. Englishwoman ! — no, no, no ! — Soho could 
not take you for an Englishwoman ! ” 

All who secretly envied or ridiculed Lady Clonbrony 
enjoyed this scene. The Alhambra hangings, which had 
been, in one short hour before, the admiration of the world, 
were now regarded by every eye with contempt, as cast 
hangings, and every tongue was busy declaiming against 
Mr. Soho; everybody declared that, from the first, the 
want of proportion had “struck them, but that they would 
not mention it till others found it out." 

People usually revenge themselves for having admired 
too much, by afterwards despising and depreciating without 
mercy — in all great assemblies the perception of ridicule is 
quickly caught, and quickly, too, revealed. Lady Clon- 
brony, even in her own house, on her gala night, became 
an object of ridicule— decently masked, indeed, under the 
appearance of condolence with her ladyship, and of indig- 
nation against “that abominable Mr. Soho! 

Lady Langdale, who was now, for reasons of her own, 
upon her good behaviour, did penance, as she said, for her 
former imprudence, by abstaining even from whispered 
sarcasms. She looked on with penitential gravity, said 
nothing herself, and endeavoured to keep Mrs. Dareville in 
order; but that was no easy task. * Mrs. Dareville had no 
daughters, had nothing to gain from the acquaintance of 
my Lady Clonbrony; and, conscious that her ladyship 
would bear a vast deal from her presence, rather than 
forego the honour of her sanction, Mrs. Dareville, without 
any motives of interest, or good-nature of sufficient power 
to restrain her talent and habit of ridicule, free from hope 
or fear, gave full scope to all the malice of mockery, and 

39 ' 


THE absentee 


all the insolence of fashion. Her slings and arrows, numer- 
ous as they were and outrageous, were directed against 
such petty objects, and the mischief was so quick, in its 
aim and its operation, that, felt but not seen, it is scarcely 
possible to register the hits, or to describe the nature of the 
wounds. 

Some hits sufficiently palpable, however, were recorded 
for the advantage of posterity. When Lady Clonbrony 
led her to look at the Chinese pagoda, the lady paused, 
with her foot on the threshold, as if afraid to enter this 
porcelain Elysium, as she called it — Fool’s Paradise, she 
would have said; and, by her hesitation, and by the 
half-pronounced word, suggested the idea — “None but 
belles without petticoats can enter here,’’ said she, draw- 
ing her clothes tight round her; “fortunately, I have but 
two, and Lady Langdale has but one.’’ Prevailed upon 
to venture in, she walked on with prodigious care and 
trepidation, affecting to be alarmed at the crowd of strange 
forms and monsters by which she was surrounded. 

“Not a creature here that I ever saw before in nature! 
Well, now I may boast I’ve been in a real Chinese pagoda ! ” 

“Why yes, everything is appropriate here, I flatter my- 
self,” said Lady Clonbrony. 

“And how good of you, my dear Lady Clonbrony, in 
defiance of bulls and blunders, to allow us a comfortable 
English fireplace and plenty of Newcastle coal, in China! 
— And a white marble — no ! white velvet hearthrug, painted 
with beautiful flowers — oh, the delicate, the useful thing! ” 

Vexed by the emphasis on the word useful, Lady Clon- 
brony endeavoured to turn off the attention of the com- 
pany. “Lady Langdale, your ladyship’s a judge of china 
— this vase is an unique, I am told.” 

“I am told,” interrupted Mrs. Dareville, “this is the 

very vase in which B , the nabob’s father, who was, 

you know, a China captain, smuggled his dear little Chinese 
wife and all her fortune out of Canton — positively, actually 
put the lid on, packed her up, and sent her off on ship- 
board ! — True! true! upon my veracity! I’ll tell you my 
authority! ” 


40 


THE ABSENTEE 


With this story Mrs. Dareville drew all attention from 
the jar, to Lady Clonbrony’s infinite mortification. 

Lady Langdale at length turned to look at a vast range 
of china jars. 

“AH Baba and the forty thieves!” exclaimed Mrs. Dare- 
ville; “I hope you have boiling oil ready! ” 

Lady Clonbrony was obliged to laugh, and to vow that 
Mrs. Dareville was uncommon pleasant to-night. “But 
now,” said her ladyship, “let me take you on to the Turk- 
ish tent.” 

Having with great difficulty got the malicious wit out of 
the pagoda and into the Turkish tent. Lady Clonbrony 
began to breathe more freely ; for here she thought she was 
upon safe ground: “Everything, I flatter myself,” said 
she, “is correct and appropriate, and quite picturesque.” 
The company, dispersed in happy groups, or reposing on 
seraglio ottomans, drinking lemonade and sherbet — beauti- 
ful Fatimas admiring, or being admired — “ Everything here 
quite correct, appropriate, and picturesque,” repeated Mrs. 
Dareville. 

This lady’s powers as a mimic were extraordinary, and 
she found them irresistible. Hitherto she had imitated 
Lady Clonbrony’s air and accent only behind her back; 
but, bolder grown, she now ventured, in spite of Lady 
Langdale’s warning pinches, to mimic her kind hostess be- 
fore her face, and to her face. Now, whenever Lady 
Clonbrony saw anything that struck her fancy in the dress 
of her fashionable friends, she had a way of hanging her 
head aside, and saying, with a peculiar sentimental drawl — 

“How pretty! — how elegant! Now that quite suits my 
teeste ! ” This phrase, precisely in the same accent, and 
with the head set to the same angle of affectation, Mrs. 
Dareville had the assurance to address to her ladyship, 
apropos to something which she pretended to admire in 
Lady Clonbrony’s costume — a costume which, excessively 
fashionable in each of its parts, was, all together, so extra- 
ordinarily unbecoming as to be fit for a print-shop. The 
perception of this, added to the effect of Mrs. Dareville’s 
mimicry, was almost too much for Lady Langdale; she 

41 


THE ABSENTEE 


could not possibly have stood it, but for the appearance 
of Miss Nugent at this instant behind Lady Clonbrony. 
Grace gave one glance of indignation which seemed sud- 
denly to strike Mrs. Dareville. Silence for a moment 
ensued, and afterwards the tone of the conversation was 
changed. 

“Salisbury! — explain this to me,” said a lady, drawing 
Mr. Salisbury aside. “If you are in the secret, do explain 
this to me ; for unless I had seen it, I could not have be- 
lieved it. Nay, though I have seen it, I do not believe it. 
How was that daring spirit laid? By what spell? ” 

“By the spell which superior minds always cast on in- 
ferior spirits.” 

“Very fine,” said the lady, laughing, “but as old as the 
days of Leonora de Galigai, quoted a million times. Now 
tell me something new and to the purpose, and better 
suited to modern days.” 

“Well, then, since you will not allow me to talk of 
superior minds in the present days, let me ask you if you 
have never observed that a wit, once conquered in com- 
pany by a wit of a higher order, is thenceforward in com- 
plete subjection to the conqueror, whenever and wherever, 
they meet? ” 

“You would not persuade me that yonder gentle-looking 
girl could ever be a match for the veteran Mrs. Dareville? 
She may have the wit, but has she the courage? ” 

“Yes; no one has more courage, more civil courage, 
where her own dignity, or the interests of her friends are 
concerned. I will tell you an instance or two to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow! — To-night! — tell it me now.” 

“Not a safe place.” 

“The safest in the world, in such a crowd as this. Fol- 
low my example. Take a glass of orgeat — sip from time 
to time, thus — speak low, looking innocent all the while 
straight forward, or now and then up at the lamps— keep 
on in an even tone — use no names — and you may tell any- 
thing.” 

“Well, then, when Miss Nugent first came to London, 
Lady Langdale ” 


42 


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“Two names already — did not I warn ye?” 

“But how can I make myself intelligible?” 

“Initials — can’t you use — or genealogy? — What stops 
you? It is only Lord Colambre, a very safe person, I 
have a notion, when the eulogium is of Grace Nugent.” 

Lord Colambre, who had now performed his arduous 
duties as a dancer, and had disembarrassed himself of all 
his partners, came into the Turkish tent just at this mo- 
ment to refresh himself, and just in time to hear Mr. Salis- 
bury’s anecdotes. 

“Now go on.” 

“Lady Langdale, you know, sets an inordinate value 
upon her curtsies in public, and she used to treat Miss 
Nugent, as her ladyship treats many other people, some- 
times noticing, and sometimes pretending not to know her, 
according to the company she happened to be with. One 
day they met in some fine company — Lady Langdale 
looked as if she was afraid of committing herself by a 
curtsy. Miss Nugent waited for a good opportunity ; and, 
when all the world was silent, leant forward, and called to 
Lady Langdale, as if she had something to communicate 
of the greatest consequence, skreening her whisper with her 
hand, as in an aside on the stage, — ‘Lady Langdale, you 
may curtsy to me now — nobody is looking.’ ” 

“The retort courteous! ” said Lord Colambre — “the only 
retort for a woman.” 

“And her ladyship deserved it so well. But Mrs. Dare- 
ville, what happened about her?” 

“Mrs. Dareville, you remember, some years ago, went 
to Ireland with some lady-lieutenant to whom she was re- 
lated. There she was most hospitably received by Lord 
and Lady Clonbrony — went to their country house— was 
as intimate with Lady Clonbrony and with Miss Nugent as 
possible — stayed at Clonbrony Castle for a month; and 
yet, when Lady Clonbrony came to London, never took 
the least notice of her. At last, meeting at the house of a 
common friend, Mrs. Dareville could not avoid recognising 
her ladyship; but, even then, did it in the least civil 
manner and most cursory style possible. ‘Ho! Lady 

43 


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Clonbrony! — didn't know you were in England! — When 
did you come? — How long shall you stay in town? — Hope, 
before you leave England, your ladyship and Miss Nugent 
will give us a day?’ A day! — Lady Clonbrony was so 
astonished by this impudence of ingratitude, that she hesi- 
tated how to take it ; but Miss Nugent, quite coolly, and 
with a smile, answered, ‘A day! — certainly — to you, who 
gave us a month ! ’ ” 

“Admirable! Now I comprehend perfectly why Mrs. 
Dareville declines insulting Miss Nugent’s friends in her 
presence.’’ 

Lord Colambre said nothing, but thought much. “How 
I wish my mother,’’ thought he, “had some of Grace Nu- 
gent’s proper pride! She would not then waste her 
fortune, spirits, health, and life, in courting such people 
as these.” 

He had not seen — he could not have borne to have be- 
held — the manner in which his mother had been treated by 
some of her guests; but he observed that she now looked 
harassed and vexed ; and he was provoked and mortified by 
hearing her begging and beseeching some of these saucy 
leaders of the ton to oblige her, to do her the favour, to 
do her the honour, to stay to supper. It was just ready — 
actually announced. “No, they would not — they could 
not ; they were obliged to run away — engaged to the 
Duchess of Torcaster.” 

“Lord Colambre, what is the matter? ” said Miss Nugent, 
going up to him, as he stood aloof and indignant: “Don’t 
look so like a chafed lion ; others may perhaps read your 
countenance as well as I do.” 

“None can read my mind so well,” replied he. “Oh, 
my dear Grace ! ” 

“Supper! — supper!” cried she; “your duty to your 
neighbour, your hand to your partner.” 

Lady Catharine, as they went downstairs to supper, ob- 
served that Miss Nugent had not been dancing, that she 
had kept quite in the background all night — quite in the 
shade. 

“Those,” said Lord Colambre, “who are contented in 


44 


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the shade are the best able to bear the light ; and I am not 
surprised that one so interesting in the background should 
not desire to be the foremost figure in a piece." 

The supper room, fitted up at great expense, with scen- 
ery to imitate Vauxhall, opened into a superb greenhouse, 
lighted with coloured lamps, a band of music at a distance 
— every delicacy, every luxury that could gratify the senses, 
appeared in profusion. The company ate and drank — 
enjoyed themselves — went away — and laughed at their 
hostess. Some, indeed, who thought they had been neg- 
lected, were in too bad humour to laugh, but abused her in 
sober earnest ; for Lady Clonbrony had offended half, nay, 
three-quarters of her guests, by what they termed her ex- 
clusive attention to those very leaders of the ton, from 
whom she had suffered so much, and who had made it 
obvious to all that they thought they did her too much 
honour in appearing at her gala. So ended the gala for 
which she had lavished such sums; for which she had 
laboured so indefatigably ; and from which she had ex- 
pected such triumph. 

"Colambre, bid the musicians stop; they are playing to 
empty benches," said Lady Clonbrony. "Grace, my dear, 
will you see that these lamps are safely put out? I am so 
tired, so worn out, I must go to bed ; and I am sure I have 
caught cold too ! What a nervous business it is to manage 
these things ! I wonder how one gets through it, or why 
one does it ! " 


CHAPTER IV. 

L ady clonbrony was taken ill the day after her 
gala ; she had caught cold by standing, when much 
overheated, in a violent draught of wind, paying her 

parting compliments to the Duke of V , who thought 

her a bore, and wished her in heaven all the time for keep- 
ing his horses standing. Her ladyship’s illness was severe 
and long; she was confined to her room for some weeks 
by a rheumatic fever, and an inflammation in her eyes. 

45 


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Every day, when Lord Colambre went to see his mother, 
he found Miss Nugent in her apartment, and every hour he 
found fresh reason to admire this charming girl. The af- 
fectionate tenderness, the indefatigable patience, the strong 
attachment she showed for her aunt, actually raised Lady 
Clonbrony in her son’s opinion. He was persuaded she 
must surely have some good or great qualities, or she could 
not have excited such strong affection. A few foibles out 
of the question, such as her love of fine people, her affecta- 
tion of being English, and other affectations too tedious to 
mention. Lady Clonbrony was really a good woman, had 
good principles, moral and religious, and, selfishness not 
immediately interfering, she was good-natured ; and though 
her soul and attention were so completely absorbed in the 
duties of acquaintanceship that she did not know it, she 
really had affections — they were concentrated upon a few 
near relations. She was extremely fond and extremely 
proud of her son. Next to her son, she was fonder of her 
niece than of any other creature. She had received Grace 
Nugent into her family when she was left an orphan, and 
deserted by some of her other relations. She had bred her 
up, and had treated her with constant kindness. This 
kindness and these obligations had raised the warmest 
gratitude in Miss Nugent’s heart; and it was the strong 
principle of gratitude which rendered her capable of endur- 
ance and exertions seemingly far above her strength. This 
young lady was not of a robust appearance, though she now 
underwent extraordinary fatigue. Her aunt could scarcely 
bear that she should leave her for a moment ; she could not 
close her eyes unless Grace sat up with her many hours 
every night. Night after night she bore this fatigue; and 
yet, with little sleep or rest, she preserved her health, at 
least supported her spirits ; and every morning, when Lord 
Colambre came into his mother’s room, he saw Miss Nu- 
gent look as blooming as if she. had enjoyed the most 
refreshing sleep. The bloom was, as he observed, not 
permanent ; it came and went, with every emotion of her 
feeling heart ; and he soon learned to fancy her almost as 
handsome when she was pale as when she had a colour. 

46 


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He had thought her beautiful when he beheld her in all 
the radiance of light, and with all the advantages of dress 
at the gala, but he found her infinitely more lovely and 
interesting now, when he saw her in a sick-room — a half- 
darkened chamber — where often he could but just discern 
her form, or distinguish her, except by her graceful motion 
as she passed, or when, but for a moment, a window-curtain 
drawn aside let the sun shine upon her face, or on the un- 
adorned ringlets of her hair. 

Much must be allowed for an inflammation in the eyes, 
and something for a rheumatic fever; yet it may seem 
strange that Lady Clonbrony should be so blind and deaf 
as neither to see nor hear all this time; that, having lived 
so long in the world, it should never occur to her that it 
was rather imprudent to have a young lady, not eighteen, 
nursing her — and such a young lady ! — when her son, not 
one-and-twenty — and such a son ! — came to visit her daily. 
But, so it was. Lady Clonbrony knew nothing of love — 
she had read of it, indeed, in novels, which sometimes for 
fashion’s sake she had looked at, and over which she had 
been obliged to doze ; but this was only love in books — 
love in real life she had never met with — in the life she led, 
how should she? She had heard of its making young 
people, and old people even, do foolish things; but those 
were foolish people; and if they were worse than foolish, 
why it was shocking, and nobody visited them. But Lady 
Clonbrony had not, for her own part, the slightest notion 
how people could be brought to this pass, nor how any- 
body out of Bedlam could prefer to a good house, a decent 
equipage, and a proper establishment, what is called love 
in a cottage. As to Colambre, she had too good an opinion 
of his understanding — to say nothing of his duty to his 
family, his pride, his rank, and his being her son — to let 
such an idea cross her imagination. As to her niece ; in 
the first place, she was her niece, and first cousins should 
never marry, because they form no new connexions to 
strengthen the family interest, or raise its consequence. 
This doctrine her ladyship had repeated for years so often 
and so dogmatically, that she conceived it to be incon- 

47 


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trovertible, and of as full force as any law of the land, or as 
any moral or religious obligation. She would as soon have 
suspected her niece of an intention of stealing her diamond 
necklace as of purloining Colambre’s heart, or marrying 
this heir of the house of Clonbrony. 

Miss Nugent was so well apprised, and so thoroughly 
convinced of all this, that she never for one moment 
allowed herself to think of Lord Colambre as a lover. 
Duty, honour, and gratitude — gratitude, the strong feeling 
and principle of her mind — forbade it ; she had so prepared 
and habituated herself to consider him as a person with 
whom she could not possibly be united that, with perfect 
ease and simplicity, she behaved towards him exactly as if 
he was her brother — not in the equivocating sentimental 
romance style in which ladies talk of treating men as their 
brothers, whom they are all the time secretly thinking of 
and endeavouring to please as lovers — not using this phrase 
as a convenient pretence, a safe mode of securing herself 
from suspicion or scandal, and of enjoying the advantages 
of confidence and the intimacy of friendship, till the pro- 
pitious moment, when it should be time to declare or avow 
the secret of the heart. No; this young lady was quite 
above all double-dealing; she had no mental reservation — 
no metaphysical subtleties — but, with plain, unsophisti- 
cated morality, in good faith and simple truth, acted as she 
professed, thought what she said, and was that which she 
seemed to be. 

As soon as Lady Clonbrony was able to see anybody, 
her niece sent to Mrs. Broadhurst, who was very intimate 
with the family ; she used to come frequently, almost every 
evening, to sit with the invalid. Miss Broadhurst accom- 
panied her mother, for she did not like to go out with any 
other chaperon — it was disagreeable to spend her time 
alone at home, and most agreeable to spend it with her 
friend Miss Nugent. In this she had no design, no co- 
quetry ; Miss Broadhurst had too lofty and independent a 
spirit to stoop to coquetry : she thought that, in their in- 
terview at the gala, she understood Lord Colambre, and 
that he understood her — that he was not inclined to court 

48 


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her for her fortune — that she would not be content with 
any suitor who was not a lover. She was two or three 
years older than Lord Colambre, perfectly aware of her 
want of beauty, yet with a just sense of her own merit, 
and of what was becoming and due to the dignity of her 
sex. This, she trusted, was visible in her manners, and 
established in Lord Colambre’s mind ; so that she ran no 
risk of being misunderstood by him ; and as to what the 
rest of the world thought, she was so well used to hear 
weekly and daily reports of her going to be married to fifty 
different people, that she cared little for what was said on 
this subject. Indeed, conscious of rectitude, and with an 
utter contempt for mean and commonplace gossiping, she 
was, for a woman, and a young woman, rather too disdain- 
ful of the opinion of the world. Mrs. Broadhurst, though 
her daughter had fully explained herself respecting Lord 
Colambre, before she began' this course of visiting, yet re- 
joiced that, even on this footing, there should be constant 
intercourse between them. It was Mrs. Broadhurst’s 
warmest wish that her daughter should obtain rank, and 
connect herself with an ancient family: she was sensible 
that the young lady’s being older than the gentleman 
might be an obstacle; and very sorry she was to find that 
her daughter had so imprudently, so unnecessarily, de- 
clared her age ; but still this little obstacle might be over- 
come; much greater difficulties in the marriage of inferior 
heiresses were every day got over, and thought nothing of. 
Then, as to the young lady’s own sentiments, her mother 
knew them better than she did herself ; she understood her 
daughter’s pride, that she dreaded to be made an object of 
bargain and sale; but Mrs. Broadhurst, who, with all her 
coarseness of mind, had rather a better notion of love mat- 
ters than Lady Clonbrony, perceived, through her daugh- 
ter’s horror of being offered to Lord Colambre, through 
her anxiety that nothing approaching to an advance on 
the part of her family should be made, that if Lord Colam- 
bre should himself advance, he would stand a better chance 
of being accepted than any other of the numerous persons 
who had yet aspired to the favour of this heiress. The 

49 


4 


THE ABSENTEE 


very circumstance of his having paid no court to her at 
first, operated in his favour; for it proved that he was not 
mercenary, and that, whatever attention he might after- 
wards show, she must be sure would be sincere and dis- 
interested. 

“And now, let them but see one another in this easy, 
intimate kind of way, and you will find, my dear Lady 
Clonbrony, things will go on of their own accord, all the 
better for our — minding our cards — and never minding 
anything else. I remember, when I was young — but let 
that pass— let the young people see one another, and man- 
age their own affairs their own way — let them be together 
— that’s all I say. Ask half the men you are acquainted 
with why they married, and their answer, if they speak 
truth, will be: ‘Because I met Miss such-a-one at such a 
place, and we were continually together.’ Propinquity! 
propinquity! — as my father used to say — and he was 
married five times, and twice to heiresses.’ 

In consequence of this plan of leaving things to them- 
selves, every evening Lady Clonbrony made out her own 
little card-table with Mrs. Broadhurst, and a Mr. and Miss 
Pratt, a brother and sister, who were the most obliging, 
convenient neighbours imaginable. From time to time, 
as Lady Clonbrony gathered up her cards, she would direct 
an inquiring glance to the group of young people at the 
other table; whilst the more prudent Mrs. Broadhurst sat 
plump with her back to them, pursing up her lips, and 
contracting her brows in token of deep calculation, looking 
down impenetrable at her cards, never even noticing Lady 
Clonbrony ’s glances, but inquiring from her partner, “How 
many they were by honours? ’’ 

The young party generally consisted of Miss Broad- 
hurst, Lord Colambre, Miss Nugent, and her admirer, Mr. 
Salisbury. Mr. Salisbury was a middle-aged gentleman, 
very agreeable, and well informed ; he had travelled ; had 
seen a great deal of the world ; had lived in the best com- 
pany; had acquired what is called good tact ; was full of 
anecdote, not mere gossiping anecdotes that lead to no- 
thing, but anecdotes characteristic of national manners, of 

50 


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human nature in general, or of those illustrious individuals 
who excite public curiosity and interest. Miss Nugent 
had seen him always in large companies, where he was 
admired for his s^avoir-^vivre, and for his entertaining anec- 
dotes, but where he had no opportunity of producing any 
of the higher powers of his understanding, or showing 
character. She found that Mr. Salisbury appeared to her 
quite a different person when conversing with Lord Colam- 
bre. Lord Colambre, with that ardent thirst for knowledge 
which it is always agreeable to gratify, had an air of open- 
ness and generosity, a frankness, a warmth of manner, 
which, with good breeding, but with something beyond it 
and superior to its established forms, irresistibly won the 
confidence and attracted the affection of those with whom 
he conversed. His manners were peculiarly agreeable to a 
person like Mr. Salisbury, tired of the sameness and ego- 
tism of men of the world. 

Miss Nugent had seldom till now had the advantage of 
hearing much conversation on literary subjects. In the 
life she had been compelled to lead she had acquired ac- 
complishments, had exercised her understanding upon 
everything that passed before her, and from circumstances 
had formed her judgment and her taste by observations 
on real life; but the ample page of knowledge had never 
been unrolled to her eyes. She had never had opportuni- 
ties of acquiring literature herself, but she admired it in 
others, particularly in her friend Miss Broadhurst. Miss 
Broadhurst had received all the advantages of education 
which money could procure, and had profited by them in 
a manner uncommon among those for whom they are pur- 
chased in such abundance; she not only had had many 
masters, and read many books, but had thought of what 
she read, and had supplied, by the strength and energy of 
her own mind, what cannot be acquired by the assistance 
of masters. Miss Nugent, perhaps overvaluing the in- 
formation that she did not possess, and free from all idea 
of envy, looked up to her friend as to a superior being, 
with a sort of enthusiastic admiration; and now, with 
“charmed attention,” listened, by turns, to her, to Mr. 

51 


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Salisbury, and to Lord Colambre, whilst they conversed 
on literary subjects — listened, with a countenance so full 
of intelligence, of animation so expressive of every good 
and kind affection, that the gentlemen did not always 
know what they were saying. 

“Pray go on,“ said she, once, to Mr. Salisbury; “you 
stop, perhaps, from politeness to me — from compassion to 
my ignorance ; but, though I am ignorant, you do not tire 
me, I assure you. Did you ever condescend to read the 
Arabian tales? Like him whose eyes were touched by the 
magical application from the dervise, I am enabled at once 
to see the riches of a new world — Oh ! how unlike, how 
superior to that in which I have lived ! — the GREAT world, 
as it is called.” 

Lord Colambre brought down a beautiful edition of the 
Arabian tales, looked for the story to which Miss Nugent 
had alluded, and showed it to Miss Broadhurst, who was 
also searching for it in another volume. 

Lady Clonbrony, from her card-table, saw the young 
people thus engaged. 

“I profess not to understand these things so well as you 
say you do, my dear Mrs. Broadhurst,” whispered she; 
“but look there now; they are at their books! What do 
you expect can come of that sort of thing? So ill-bred, 
and downright rude of Colambre, I must give him a hint.” 

“No, no, for mercy’s sake! my dear Lady Clonbrony, 
no hints, no hints, no remarks! What would you have? — 
she reading, and my lord at the back of her chair, leaning 
over — and allowed, mind, to lean over to read the same 
thing. Can’t be better ! Never saw any man yet allowed 
to come so near her! Now, Lady Clonbrony, not a word, 
not a look, I beseech.” 

“Well, well! — but if they had a little music.” 

“My daughter’s tired of music. How much do I owe 
your ladyship now? — three rubbers, I think. Now, though 
you would not believe it of a young girl,” continued Mrs. 
Broadhurst, “I can assure your ladyship, my daughter 
would often rather go to a book than a ball.” 

“Well, now, that’s very extraordinary, in the style in 

52 


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which she has been brought up ; yet books and all that are 
so fashionable now, that it’s very natural,” said Lady 
Clonbrony. 

About this time, Mr. Berryl, Lord Colambre’s Cam- 
bridge friend, for whom his lordship had fought the battle 
of the curricle with Mordicai, came to town. Lord Colam- 
bre introduced him to his mother, by whom he was 
graciously received ; for Mr. Berryl was a young gentleman 
of good figure, good address, good family, heir to a good 
fortune, and in every respect a fit match for Miss Nugent. 
Lady Clonbrony thought that it would be wise to secure 
him for her niece before he should make his appearance in 
the London world, where mothers and daughters would 
soon make him feel his own consequence. Mr. Berryl, as 
Lord Colambre’s intirnate friend, was admitted to the 
private evening parties at Lady Clonbrony’s, and he con- 
tributed to render them still more agreeable. His informa- 
tion, his habits of thinking, and his views, were all totally 
different from Mr. Salisbury’s; and their collision con- 
tinually struck out that sparkling novelty which pleases 
peculiarly in conversation. Mr. Berryl’s education, dis- 
position, and tastes, fitted him exactly for the station 
which he was destined to fill in society — that of a country 
gentleman ; not meaning by that expression a mere eating, 
drinking, hunting, shooting, ignorant country squire of the 
old race, which is now nearly extinct ; but a cultivated, en- 
lightened, independent English country gentleman — the 
happiest, perhaps, of human beings. On the comparative 
felicity of the town and country life; on the dignity, 
utility, elegance, and interesting nature of their different 
occupations, and general scheme of passing their time, Mr. 
Berryl and Mr. Salisbury had one evening a playful, enter- 
taining, and, perhaps, instructive conversation ; each party, 
at the end, remaining, as frequently happens, of their own 
opinion. It was observed that Miss Broadhurst ably and 
warmly defended Mr. Berryl’sside of the question; and in 
their views, plans, and estimates of life, there appeared a 
remarkable, and as Lord Colambre thought, a happy co- 
incidence. When she was at last called upon to give her 

53 


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decisive judgment between a town and a country life, she 
declared that ‘Mf she were condemned to the extremes of 
either, she should prefer a country life, as much as she 
should prefer Robinson Crusoe’s diary to the journal of 
the idle man in the Spectator."" 

“Lord bless me! Mrs. Broadhurst, do you hear what 
your daughter is saying?” cried Lady Clonbrony, who, 
from the card-table, lent an attentive ear to all that was 
going forward. “Is it possible that Miss Broadhurst, with 
her fortune, and pretensions, and sense, can really be 
serious in saying she would be content to live in the coun- 
try? ” 

“What’s that you say, child, about living in the coun- 
try?” said Mrs. Broadhurst. 

Miss Broadhurst repeated what she had said. 

“Girls always think so who have lived in town,” said 
Mrs. Broadhurst. “They are always dreaming of sheep 
and sheep-hooks; but the first winter the country cures 
them ; a shepherdess, in winter, is a sad and sorry sort of 
personage, except at a masquerade.” 

“Colambre,” said Lady Clonbrony, “I am sure Miss 
Broadhurst’s sentiments about town life, and all that, 
must delight you ; for do you know, ma’am, he is always 
trying to persuade me to give up living in town? Colam- 
bre and Miss Broadhurst perfectly agree.” 

“Mind your cards, my dear Lady Clonbrony,” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Broadhurst, “in pity to your partner. Mr. 
Pratt has certainly the patience of Job — your ladyship has 
revoked twice this hand.” 

Lady Clonbrony begged a thousand pardons, fixed her 
eyes and endeavoured to fix her mind on the cards ; but 
there was something said at the other end of the room, 
about an estate in Cambridgeshire, which soon distracted 
her attention again. Mr. Pratt certainly had the patience 
of Job. She revoked, and lost the game, though they had 
four by honours. 

As soon as she rose from the card-table, and could speak 
to Mrs. Broadhurst apart, she communicated her apprehen- 
sions. 


54 


THE ABSENTEE 


“Seriously, my dear madam,” said she, “I believe I have 
done very wrong to admit Mr. Berryl just now, though it 
was on Grace’s account I did it. But, ma’am, I did not 
know Miss Broadhurst had an estate, in Cambridgeshire; 
their two estates just close to one another, I heard them 
say. Lord bless me, ma’am ! there’s the danger of propin- 
quity indeed ! ” 

“No danger, no danger,’’ persisted Mrs. Broadhurst. 
“I know my girl better than you do, begging your lady- 
ship’s pardon. No one thinks less of estates than she 
does.” 

“Well, I only know I heard her talking of them, and 
earnestly too.” 

“Yes, very likely; but don’t you know that girls never 
think of what they are talking about, or rather talk of what 
they are thinking about? And they have always ten times 
more to say to the man they don’t care for, than to him 
they do.” 

“Very extraordinary!” said Lady Clonbrony. “I only 
hope you are right.” 

“I am sure of it,” said Mrs. Broadhurst. “Only let 
things go on, and mind your cards, I beseech you, to- 
morrow night better than you did to-night ; and you will 
see that things will turn out just as I prophesied. Lord 
Colambre will come to a point-blank proposal before the 
end of the week, and will be accepted, or my name’s not 
Broadhurst. Why, in plain English, I am clear my girl 
likes him ; and when that’s the case, you know, can you 
doubt how the thing will end? ” 

Mrs. Broadhurst was perfectly right in every point of 
her reasoning but one. From long habit of seeing and 
considering that such an heiress as her daughter might 
marry whom she pleased — from constantly seeing that she 
was the person to decide and to reject — Mrs. Broadhurst 
had literally taken it for granted that everything was to 
depend upon her daughter’s inclinations : she was not mis- 
taken, in the present case, in opining that the young lady 
would not be averse to Lord Colambre, if he came to what 
she called a point-blank proposal. It really never occurred 

55 


THE ABSENTEE 

to Mrs. Broadhurst that any man, whom her daughter was 
the least inclined to favour, could think of anybody else. 
Quick-sighted in these affairs as the matron thought her- 
self, she saw but one side of the question : blind and dull 
of comprehension as she thought Lady Clonbrony on this 
subject, she was herself so completely blinded by her own 
prejudices, as to be incapable of discerning the plain thing 
that was before her eyes; videlicet, that Lord Colambre 
preferred Grace Nugent. Lord Colambre made no pro- 
posal before the end of the week, but this Mrs. Broadhurst 
attributed to an unexpected occurrence, which prevented 
things from going on in the train in which they had been 
proceeding so smoothly. Sir John Berryl, Mr. Berryl’s 
father, was suddenly seized with a dangerous illness. The 
news was brought to Mr. Berryl one evening whilst he 
was at Lady Clonbrony’s. The circumstances of domestic 
distress, which afterwards occurred in the family of his 
friend, entirely occupied Lord Colambre's time and atten- 
tion. All thoughts of love were suspended, and his whole 
mind was given up to the active services of friendship. 
The sudden illness of Sir John Berryl spread an alarm 
among his creditors which brought to light at once the dis- 
order of his affairs, of which his son had no knowledge or 
suspicion. Lady Berryl had been a very expensive woman, 
especially in equipages; and Mordicai, the coachmaker, 
appeared at this time the foremost and the most inexor- 
able of their creditors. Conscious that the charges in his 
account were exorbitant, and that they would ' not be 
allowed if examined by a court of justice; that it was a 
debt which only ignorance and extravagance could have in 
the first instance incurred, swelled afterwards to an amaz- 
ing amount by interest, and interest upon interest ; Mor- 
dicai was impatient to obtain payment whilst Sir John yet 
lived, or at least to obtain legal security for the whole sum 
from the heir. Mr. Berryl offered his bond for the amount 
of the reasonable charges in his account ; but this Mordicai 
absolutely refused, declaring that now he had the power in 
his own hands, he would use it to obtain the utmost penny 
of his debt ; that he would not let the thing slip through 

56 


THE ABSENTEE 


his fingers ; that a debtor never yet escaped him, and never 
should; that a man’s lying upon his deathbed was no ex- 
cuse to a creditor; that he was not a whiffler, to stand 
upon ceremony about disturbing a gentleman in his last 
moments ; that he was not to be cheated out of his due by 
such niceties; that he was prepared to go all lengths the 
law would allow; for that, as to what people said of 
him, he did not care a doit — “Cover your face with your 
hands, if you like it, Mr. Berryl; you may be ashamed for 
me, but I feel no shame for myself — I am not so weak.’’ 
Mordicai’s countenance said more than his words; livid 
with malice, and with atrocious determination in his eyes, 
he stood. “Yes, sir,” said he, “you may look at me as 
you please — it is possible — I am in earnest. Consult what 
you’ll do now, behind my back or before my face, it comes 
to the same thing; for nothing will do but my money or 
your bond, Mr. Berryl. The arrest is made on the person 
of your father, luckily made while the breath is still in the 
body. Yes — start forward to strike me, if you dare — your 
father. Sir John Berryl, sick or well, is my prisoner.” 

Lady Berryl and Mr. Berryl’s sisters, in an agony of 
grief, rushed into the room. 

“It’s all useless,’’ cried Mordicai, turning his back upon 
the ladies; “these tricks upon creditors won’t do with me; 
I’m used to these scenes; I’m not made of such stuff as 
you think. Leave a gentleman in peace in his last mo- 
ments. No! he ought not, nor shan’t die in peace, if he 
don’t pay his debts; and if you are all so mighty sorry, 
ladies, there’s the gentleman you may kneel to ; if tender- 
ness is the order of the day, it’s for the son to show it, not 
me. Ay, now, Mr. Berryl,’’ cried he, as Mr. Berryl took 
up the bond to sign it, “you’re beginning to know I’m not 
a fool to be trifled with. Stop your hand, if you choose 
it, sir — it’s all the same to me; the person, or the money. 
I’ll carry with me out of this house.” 

Mr. Berryl signed the bond, and threw it to him. 

“There, monster! — quit the house! ’’ 

Monster is not actionable — I wish you had called me 
rascal^'" said Mordicai, grinning a horrible smile; and 

57 


THE ABSENTEE 


taking up the bond deliberately, returned it to Mr. Berryl. 
“This paper is worth nothing to me, sir — it is not wit- 
nessed." 

Mr. Berryl hastily left the room, and returned with Lord 
Colambre. Mordicai changed countenance and grew pale, 
for a moment, at sight of Lord Colambre. 

“Well, my lord, since it so happens, I am not sorry that 
you should be witness to this paper,” said he; “and indeed 
not sorry that you should witness the whole proceeding; 
for I trust I shall be able to explain to you my conduct." 

“I do not come here, sir," interrupted Lord Colambre, 
“to listen to any explanations of your conduct, which I per- 
fectly understand ; — I come to witness a bond for my friend 
Mr. Berryl, if you think proper to extort from him such a 
bond." 

“I extort nothing, my lord. Mr. Berryl, it is quite a 
voluntary act, take notice, on your part ; sign or not, wit- 
ness or not, as you please, gentlemen," said Mordicai, 
sticking his hands in his pockets, and recovering his look 
of black and fixed determination. 

“Witness it, witness it, my dear lord," said Mr. Berryl, 
looking at his mother and weeping sisters; “witness it, 
quick ! " 

“Mr. Berryl must just run over his name again in your 
presence, my lord, with a dry pen," said Mordicai, putting 
the pen into Mr. Berryl’s hand. 

“No, sir," said Lord Colambre, “my friend shall never 
sign it." 

“As you please, my lord — the bond or the body, before 
I quit this house," said Mordicai. 

“Neither, sir, shall you have; and you quit this house 
directly." 

“How! how! — my lord, how's this?" 

“Sir, the arrest you have made is as illegal as it is inhu- 
man." 

“Illegal, my lord!" said Mordicai, startled. 

“Illegal, sir. I came into this house at the moment 
when your bailiff asked and was refused admittance. 
Afterwards, in the confusion of the family above stairs, he 

58 


THE ABSENTEE 


forced open the house door with an iron bar — I saw him — 
I am ready to give evidence of the fact. Now proceed at 
your peril.” 

Mordicai, without reply, snatched up his hat, and walked 
.towards the door ; but Lord Colambre held the door open 
— the door was immediately at the head of the stairs — and 
Mordicai, seeing his indignant look and proud form, hesi- 
tated to pass ; for he had always heard that Irishmen are 
“quick in the executive part of justice.” 

“Pass on, sir,” repeated Lord Colambre, with an air of 
ineffable contempt : “ I am a gentleman — you have nothing 
to fear.” 

Mordicai ran downstairs ; Lord Colambre, before he went 
back into the room, waited to see Mordicai and his bailiff 
out of the house. When Mordicai was fairly at the bottom 
of the stairs, he turned, and, white with rage, looked up at 
Lord Colambre. 

“Charity begins at home*, my lord,” said he. “Look at 
home — you shall pay for this,” added he, standing half- 
shielded by the house door, for Lord Colambre moved for- 
ward as he spoke the last words; “and I give you this 
warning, because I know it will be of no use to you — Your 
most obedient, my lord.” 

The house door closed after Mordicai. 

“Thank Heaven ! ” thought Lord Colambre, “that I did 
not horsewhip that mean wretch ! This warning shall be 
of use to me. But it is not time to think of that yet.” 

Lord Colambre turned from his own affairs to those of 
his friend, to offer all the assistance and consolation in his 
power. Sir John Berryl died that night. His daughters, 
who had lived in the highest style in London, were left 
totally unprovided for. His widow had mortgaged her 
jointure. Mr. Berryl had an estate now left to him, but 
without any income. He could not be so dishonest as to 
refuse to pay his father’s just debts; he could not let his 
mother and sisters starve. The scene of distress to which 
Lord Colambre was witness in this family made a still 
greater impression upon him than had been made by 
the warning or the threats of Mordicai. The similarity 

59 


THE ABSENTEE 


between the circumstances of his friend’s family and of 
his own struck him forcibly. 

All this evil had arisen from Lady Berryl’s passion for 
living in London and at watering-places. She had made 
her husband an ABSENTEE — an absentee from his home, 
his affairs, his duties, and his estate. The sea, the Irish 
Channel, did not, indeed, flow between him and his estate ; 
but it was of little importance whether the separation was 
effected by land or water — the consequences, the negli- 
gence, the extravagance, were the same. 

Of the few people of his age who are capable of profiting 
by the experience of others. Lord Colambre was one. 
“Experience,” as an elegant writer has observed, “is an 
article that may be borrowed with safety, and is often dearly 
bought.” 


CHAPTER V. 

I N the meantime. Lady Clonbrony had been occupied 
with thoughts very different from those which passed 
in the mind of her son. Though she had never com- 
pletely recovered from her rheumatic pains, she had become 
inordinately impatient of confinement to her own house, 
and weary of those dull evenings at home, which had, in 
her son’s absence, become insupportable. She told over 
her visiting tickets regularly twice a day, and gave to every 
card of invitation a heartfelt sigh. Miss Pratt alarmed her 
ladyship, by bringing intelligence of some parties given by 
persons of consequence, to which she was not invited. She 
feared that she should be forgotten in the world, well 
knowing how soon the world forgets those they do not see 
every day and everywhere. How miserable is the fine 
lady’s lot who cannot forget the world, and who is forgot 
by the world in a moment! How much more miserable 
still is the condition of a would-be fine lady, working her 
way up in the world with care and pains 1 By her, every 
slightest failure of attention, from persons of rank and 
fashion, is marked and felt with jealous anxiety, and with 

6o 


THE ABSENTEE 


a sense of mortification the most acute— an invitation 
omitted is a matter of the most serious consequence, not 
only as it regards the present, but the future ; for if she be 
not invited by Lady A, it will lower her in the eyes of 
Lady B, and of all the ladies of the alphabet. It will form 
a precedent of the most dangerous and inevitable applica- 
tion. If she has nine invitations, and the tenth be want- 
ing, the nine have no power to make her happy. This was 
precisely Lady Clonbrony’s case — there was to be a party 
at Lady St. James’s, for which Lady Clonbrony had no 
card. 

“So ungrateful, so monstrous, of Lady St. James! — 
What ! was the gala so soon forgotten, and all the marked 
attentions paid that night to Lady St. James! — attentions, 
you know, Pratt, which were looked upon with a jealous 
eye, and made me enemies enough, I am told, in another 
quarter! Of all people, I did not expect to be slighted by 
Lady St. James ! ’’ 

Miss Pratt, who was ever ready to undertake the defence 
of any person who had a title, pleaded, in mitigation of 
censure, that perhaps Lady St. James might not be aware 
that her ladyship was yet well enough to venture out. 

“Oh, my dear Miss Pratt, that cannot be the thing; for, 
in spite of my rheumatism, which really was bad enough 
last Sunday, I went on purpose to the Royal Chapel, to 
show myself in the closet, and knelt close to her ladyship. 
And, my dear, we curtsied, and she congratulated me, after 
church, upon my being abroad again, and was so happy to 
see me look so well, and all that — Oh ! it is something very 
extraordinary and unaccountable! ’’ 

“But, I daresay, a card will come yet,” said Miss Pratt. 

Upon this hint. Lady Clonbrony ’s hope revived; and, 
staying her anger, she began to consider how she could 
manage to get herself invited. Refreshing tickets were 
left next morning at Lady St. James’s with their corners 
properly turned up ; to do the thing better, separate tickets 
for herself and for Miss Nugent were left for each member 
of the family ; and her civil messages, left with the foot- 
man, extended to the utmost possibility of reminder. It 

6i 


THE ABSENTEE 


had occurred to her ladyship that for Miss Somebody, the 
companion^ of whom she had never in her life thought be- 
fore, she had omitted to leave a card last time, and she now 
left a note of explanation ; she further, with her rheumatic 
head and arm out of the coach-window, sat, the wind 
blowing keen upon her, explaining to the porter and the 
footman, to discover whether her former tickets had gone 
safely up to Lady St. James; and on the present occasion, 
to make assurance doubly sure, she slid handsome expedi- 
tion money into the servant’s hand — “Sir, you will be sure 
to remember.’’ — “Oh certainly, your ladyship!’’ 

She well knew what dire offence has frequently been 
taken, what sad disasters have occurred, in the fashionable 
world, from the neglect of a porter in delivering, or of a 
footman in carrying up one of those talismanic cards. 
But, in spite of all her manoeuvres, no invitation to the 
party arrived next day. Pratt was next set to work. Miss 
Pratt was a most convenient go-between, who, in conse- 
quence of doing a thousand little services, to which few 
others of her rank in life would stoop, had obtained the 
eyitr^e to a number of great houses, and was behind the 
scenes in many fashionable families. Pratt could find out, 
and Pratt could hint, and Pratt could manage to get things 
done cleverly — and hints were given, in all directions, to 
work round to Lady St. James. But still they did not 
take effect. At last Pratt suggested that, perhaps, though 
everything else had failed, dried salmon might be tried 
with success. Lord Clonbrony had just had some un- 
commonly good from Ireland, which Pratt knew Lady St. 
James would like to have at her supper, because a certain 
personage, whom she would not name, was particularly 
fond of it. — Wheel within wheel in the fine world, as well 
as in the political world !— Bribes for all occasions, and for 
all ranks! The timely present was sent, accepted with 
many thanks, and understood as it was meant. Per favour 
of this propitiatory offering, and of a promise of half a 
dozen pair of real Limerick gloves to Miss Pratt — a pro- 
mise which Pratt clearly comprehended to be a conditional 
promise — the grand object was at length accomplished. 

63 


THE ABSENTEE 


The very day before the party was to take place came 
cards of invitation to Lady Clonbrony and to Miss Nugent, 
with Lady St, James’s apologies; her ladyship was con- 
cerned to find that, by some negligence of her servants, 
these cards were not sent in proper time. “How slight an 
apology will do from some people ! “ thought Miss Nugent ; 
“how eager to forgive, when it is for our interest or our 
pleasure; how well people act the being deceived, even 
when all parties know that they see the whole truth ; and 
how low pride will stoop to gain its object! ” 

Ashamed of the whole transaction, Miss Nugent earn- 
estly wished that a refusal should be sent, and reminded 
her aunt of her rheumatism ; but rheumatism and all other 
objections were overruled — Lady Clonbrony would go. 
It was just when this affair was thus, in her opinion, suc- 
cessfully settled, that Lord Colambre came in, with a 
countenance of unusual seriousness, his mind full of the 
melancholy scenes he had witnessed in his friend’s family. 
“What is the matter, Cola];nbre ? ’ ’ 

He related what had passed; he described the brutal 
conduct of Mordicai ; the anguish of the mother and sisters ; 
the distress of Mr. Berryl. Tears rolled down Miss Nu- 
gent’s cheeks. Lady Clonbrony declared it was very 
shocking ; listened with attention to all the particulars; 
but never failed to correct her son, whenever he said Mr. 
Berryl. 

Sir Arthur Berryl, you mean.” 

She was, however, really touched with compassion when 
he spoke of Lady Berryl’s destitute condition ; and her son 
was going on to repeat what Mordicai had said to him, but 
Lady Clonbrony interrupted — 

“Oh, my dear Colambre! don’t repeat that detestable 
man’s impertinent speeches to me. If there is anything 
really about business, speak to your father. At any rate, 
don’t tell us of it now, because I’ve a hundred things to 
do,” said her ladyship, hurrying out of the room. “Grace 
— Grace Nugent ! I want you ! ” 

Lord Colambre sighed deeply. 

“Don’t despair,” said Miss Nugent, as she followed to 

63 


THE ABSENTEE 


obey her aunt's summons. ‘ ‘ Don’t despair ; don’t attempt 
to speak to her again till to-morrow morning. Her head 
is now full of Lady St. James’s party. When it is emptied 
of that, you will have a better chance. Never despair.” 

“Never, while you encourage me to hope — that any 
good can be done.” 

Lady Clonbrony was particularly glad that she had car- 
ried her point about this party at Lady St. James’s; be- 
cause, from the first private intimation that the Duchess 
of Torcaster was to be there, her ladyship flattered herself 
that the long-desired introduction might then be accom- 
plished. But of this hope Lady St. James had likewise 
received intimation from the double-dealing Miss Pratt; 
and a warning note was despatched to the duchess to let 
her grace know that circumstances had occurred which had 
rendered it impossible not to ask the Clonbronies, An 
excuse, of course, for not going to this party was sent by 
the duchess — her grace did not like large parties — she 
would have the pleasure of accepting Lady St. James’s 
invitation for her select party on Wednesday the loth. 
Into these select parties Lady Clonbrony had never been 
admitted. In return for her great entertainments she was 
invited to great entertainments, to large parties ; but farther 
she could never penetrate. 

At Lady St. James’s, and with her set. Lady Clonbrony 
suffered a different kind of mortification from that which 
Lady Langdale and Mrs. Dareville made her endure. She 
was safe from the witty raillery, the sly innuendo, the in- 
solent mimicry; but she was kept at a cold, impassable 
distance, by ceremony — “So far shalt thou go, and no 
farther” was expressed in every look, in every word, and 
in a thousand different ways. 

By the most punctilious respect and nice regard to pre- 
cedency, even by words of courtesy — “Your ladyship does 
me honour,” etc. — Lady St. James contrived to mortify 
and to mark the difference between those with whom 
she was, and with whom she was not, upon terms of in- 
timacy and equality. Thus the ancient grandees of Spain 
drew a line of demarcation between themselves and the 

64 


1 . 





‘ “ Mordecai’s ! ” exclaimed Lord Clonbrony, with a sudden 
blush, which he endeavoured to hide by taking snuff.’ 




THE ABSENTEE 


newly-created nobility. Whenever or wherever they met, 
they treated the new nobles with the utmost respect, never 
addressed them but with all their titles, with low bows, 
and with all the appearance of being, with the most perfect 
consideration, anything but their equals; whilst towards 
one another the grandees laid aside their state, and omit- 
ting their titles, it was, “Alcala — Medina — Sidonia — Infan- 
tado, ’ ’ and a freedom and familiarity which marked equality. 
Entrenched in etiquette in this manner, and mocked with 
marks of respect, it was impossible either to intrude or to 
complain of being excluded. 

At supper at Lady St. James’s, Lady Clonbrony’s pre- 
sent was pronounced by some gentleman to be remarkably 
high flavoured. This observation turned the conversation 
to Irish commodities and Ireland. Lady Clonbrony, pos- 
sessed by the idea that it was disadvantageous to appear as 
an Irishwoman, or as a favourer of Ireland, began to be 
embarrassed by Lady St. James’s repeated thanks. Had 
it been in her power to offer anything else with propriety, 
she would not have thought of sending her ladyship any- 
thing from Ireland. Vexed by the questions that were 
asked her about her country. Lady Clonbrony, as usual, 
denied it to be her country, and went on to depreciate and 
abuse everything Irish; to declare that there was no pos- 
sibility of living in Ireland ; and that, for her own part, she 
was resolved never to return thither. Lady St. James, 
preserving perfect silence, let her go on. Lady Clonbrony, 
imagining that this silence arose from coincidence of opin- 
ion, proceeded with all the eloquence she possessed, which 
was very little, repeating the same exclamations, and reit- 
erating her vow of perpetual expatriation ; till at last an 
elderly lady, who was a stranger to her, and whom she 
had till this moment scarcely noticed, took up the defence 
of Ireland with much warmth and energy : the eloquence 
with which she spoke, and the respect with which she was 
heard, astonished Lady Clonbrony. 

“Who is she? ’’ whispered her ladyship. 

“Does not your ladyship know Lady Oranmore — the 
Irish Lady Oranmore? ’’ 


5 


65 


THE ABSENTEE 


''Lord bless me ! — what have I said ! — what have I done ! 
Oh! why did not you give me a hint, Lady St. James? ” 

“I was not aware that your ladyship was not acquainted 
with Lady Oranmore,” replied Lady St. James, unmoved 
by her distress. 

Everybody sympathised with Lady Oranmore, and ad- 
mired the honest zeal with which she abided by her coun- 
try, and defended it against unjust aspersions and affected 
execrations. Every one present enjoyed Lady Clonbrony’s 
confusion, except Miss Nugent, who sat with her eyes 
bowed down by penetrative shame during the whole of 
this scene ; she was glad that Lord Colambre was not wit- 
ness to it ; and comforted herself with the hope that, upon 
the whole. Lady Clonbrony would be benefited by the 
pain she had felt. This instance might convince her that 
it was not necessary to deny her country to be received in 
any company in England ; and that those who have the 
courage and steadiness to be themselves, and to support 
what they feel and believe to be the truth, must command 
respect. Miss Nugent hoped that in consequence of this 
conviction Lady Clonbrony would lay aside the little affec- 
tations by which her manners were painfully constrained 
and ridiculous ; and, above all, she hoped that what Lady 
Oranmore had said of Ireland might dispose her aunt to 
listen with patience to all Lord Colambre might urge in 
favour of returning to her home. But Miss Nugent hoped 
in vain. Lady Clonbrony never in her life generalised any 
observations, or drew any but a partial conclusion from 
the most striking facts. 

“Lord ! my dear Grace! “ said she, as soon as they were 
seated in their carriage, “what a scrape I got into to-night 
at supper, and what disgrace I came to ! — and all this be- 
cause I did not know Lady Oranmore. Now you see the 
inconceivable disadvantage of not knowing everybody — 
everybody of a certain rank, of course, I mean “ 

Miss Nugent endeavoured to slide in her own moral on 
the occasion, but it would not do. 

“Yes, my dear. Lady Oranmore may talk in that kind of 
style of Ireland, because, on the other hand, she is so highly 

66 


THE ABSENTEE 


connected in England ; and, besides, she is an old lady, and 
may take liberties ; in short, she is Lady Oranmore, and 
that’s enough.” 

The next morning, when they all met at breakfast. Lady 
Clonbrony complained bitterly of her increased rheumat- 
ism, of the disagreeable, stupid party they had had the 
preceding night, and of the necessity of going to another 
formal party that night, the next, and the next, and, in the 
true fine lady style, deplored her situation, and the impos- 
sibility of avoiding those things. 

Which felt they curse, yet covet still to feel. 

Miss Nugent determined to retire as soon as she could 
from the breakfast-room, to leave Lord Colambre an oppor- 
tunity of talking over his family affairs at full liberty. She 
knew by the seriousness of his countenance that his mind 
was intent upon doing so, and she hoped that his influence 
with his father and mother would not be exerted in vain. 
But just as she was rising fron> the breakfast-table, in came 
Sir Terence O’Fay, and, seating himself quite at his ease, 
in spite of Lady Clonbrony’s repulsive looks, his awe of 
Lord Colambre having now worn off — 

“I’m tired,” said he, “and have a right to be tired; for 
it’s no small walk I’ve taken for the good of this noble 
family this morning. And, Miss Nugent, before I say 
more. I’ll take a cup of ta from you, if you please.” 

Lady Clonbrony rose, with great stateliness, and walked 
to the farthest end of the room, where she established her- 
self at her writing-table, and began to write notes. 

Sir Terence wiped his forehead deliberately. 

“Then I’ve had a fine run — Miss Nugent, I believe you 
never saw me run ; but I can run, I promise you, when it’s 
to serve a friend. And, my lord (turning to Lord Clon- 
brony), what do you think I run for this morning — to buy 
a bargain — and of what? — a bargain of a bad debt — a debt 
of yours, which I bargained for, and up just in time — and 
Mordicai’s ready to hang himself this minute. For what 
do you think but that rascal was bringing upon you— but 
an execution? — he was.” 


67 


THE ABSENTEE 


“An execution!” repeated everybody present, except 
Lord Colambre. 

“And how has this been prevented, sir?” said Lord 
Colambre. 

“Oh! let me alone for that,” said Sir Terence. “I got a 
hint from my little friend, Paddy Brady, who would not be 
paid for it either, though he’s as poor as a rat. Well! as 
soon as I got the hint, I dropped the thing I had in my 
hand, which was the Dublhi Eveyiing, and ran for the bare 
life — for there wasn’t a coach — in my slippers, as I was, to 
get into the prior creditor’s shoes, who is the little solicitor 
that lives in Crutched Friars, which Mordicai never dreamt 
of, luckily; so he was very genteel, though he was taken 
on a sudden, and from his breakfast, which an Englishman 
don’t like particularly — I popped him a douceur of a 
draught, at thirty-one days, on Garraghty, the agent; of 
which he must get notice; but I won’t descant on the law 
before the ladies — he handed me over his debt and execu- 
tion, and he made me prior creditor in a trice. Then I 
took coach in state, the first I met, and away with me to 
Long Acre — saw Mordicai. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I hear you’re 
meditating an execution on a friend of mine.’ ‘Am I?’ 
said the rascal; *who told you so?’ ‘No matter,’ said I; 
‘but I just called in to let you know there’s no use in life 
of your execution ; for there’s a prior creditor with his 
execution to be satisfied first.’ So he made a great many 
black faces, and said a great deal, which I never listened 
to, but came off here clean to tell you all the story.” 

“Not one word of which do I understand,” said Lady 
Clonbrony. 

“Then, my dear, you are very ungrateful,” said Lord 
Clonbrony. 

Lord Colambre said nothing, for he wished to learn more 
of Sir Terence O’Fay’s character, of the state of his father’s 
affairs, and of the family methods of proceeding in matters 
of business. 

“Faith! Terry, I know I’m very thankful to you — but 
an execution’s an ugly thing— and I hope there’s no dan^ 
ger ” 


68 


THE ABSENTEE 


“Never fear! ” said Sir Terence: “haven’t I been at my 
wits’ ends for myself or my friends ever since I come to 
man’s estate — to years of discretion, I should say, for the 
deuce a foot of estate have I ! But use has sharpened my 
wits pretty well for your service ; so never be in dread, my 
good lord ; for look ye ! ’’ cried the reckless knight, sticking 
his arms akimbo — “look ye here! in Sir Terence O’Fay 
stands a host that desires no better than to encounter, 
single witted, all the duns in the united kingdoms, Mordi- 
cai the Jew inclusive.’’ 

“Ah! that’s the devil, that Mordicai,’’ said Lord Clon- 
brony; “that’s the only man on earth I dread.’’ 

“Why, he is only a coachmaker, is not he?’’ said Lady 
Clonbrony: “I can’t think how you can talk, my lord, of 
dreading such a low man. Tell him, if he’s troublesome, 
we won’t bespeak any more carriages ; and. I’m sure, I wish 
you would not be so silly, my lord, to employ him any 
more, when you know he disappointed me the last birth- 
day about the landau, which. I have not got yet.’’ 

“Nonsense, my dear,’’ said Lord Clonbrony; “you don’t 
know what you are talking of. Terry, I say, even a friendly 
execution is an ugly thing.’’ 

‘ ‘ Phoo ! phoo ! — an ugly thing ! So is a fit of the gout — 
but one’s all the better for it after. ’Tis just a renewal of 
life, my lord, for which one must pay a bit of a fine, you 
know. Take patience, and leave me to manage all pro- 
perly — you know I’m used to these things. Only you recol- 
lect, if you please, how I managed my friend Lord ; 

it’s bad to be mentioning names — but Lord everybody- 
knows-who — didn’t I bring him through cleverly, when 
there was that rascally attempt to seize the family plate? 
I had notice, and what did I do, but broke open a parti- 
tion between that lord’s house and my lodgings, which 
I had taken next door; and so, when the sheriff’s officers 
were searching below on the ground floor, I just shoved 
the plate easy through to my bedchamber at a moment’s 
warning, and then bid the gentlemen walk in, for they 
couldn’t set a foot in my paradise, the devils! So they 
stood looking at it through the wall, and cursing me, 

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and I holding both my sides with laughter at their fallen 
faces/’ 

Sir Terence and Lord Clonbrony laughed in concert. 

“This is a good story,” said Miss Nugent, smiling; “but 
surely, Sir Terence, such things are never done in real life? “ 

“Done! ay, are they; -and I could tell you a hundred 
better strokes, my dear Miss Nugent.” 

“Grace!” cried Lady Clonbrony, “do pray have the 
goodness to seal and send these notes; for really,” whis- 
pered she, as her niece came to the table, “I cawnt stea, I 
cawnt bear that man’s vice, his accent grows horrider and 
horrider ! ” 

Her ladyship rose, and left the room. 

“Why, then,” continued Sir Terence, following up Miss 
Nugent to the table, where she was sealing letters, “I must 
tell you how I s<3:rved that same man on another occasion, 
and got the victory too.” 

No general officer could talk of his victories, or fight his 
battles o’er again, with more complacency than Sir Terence 
O’ Fay recounted his civil exploits. 

“Now ril tell Miss Nugent. There was a footman in 
the family, not an Irishman, but one of your powdered Eng- 
lish scoundrels that ladies are so fond of having hanging 
to the backs of their carriages ; one Fleming he was, that 
turned spy, and traitor, and informer, went privately and 
gave notice to the creditors where the plate was hid in the 
thickness of the chimney; but if he did, what happened? 
Why, I had my counter-spy, an honest little Irish boy, in 
the creditor’s shop, that I had secured with a little douceur 
of usquebaugh ; and he outwitted, as was natural, the Eng- 
lish lying valet, and gave us notice just in the nick, and I 
got ready for their reception; and. Miss Nugent, I only 
wish you’d seen the excellent sport we had, letting them 
follow the scent they got; and when they were sure of 
their game, what did they find? — Ha! ha! ha! — dragged 
out, after a world of labour, a heavy box of — a load of 
brickbats; not an item of my friend’s plate — that was all 
snug in the coal-hole, where them dunces never thought of 
looking for it. Ha! ha! ha! ” 

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‘‘But come, Terry,” cried Lord Clonbrony, ‘‘I’ll pull 
down your pride. How finely, another time, your job of 
the false ceiling answered in the hall. I’ve heard that 
story, and have been told how the sheriff’s fellow thrust 
his bayonet up through your false plaster, and down came 
tumbling the family plate — hey, Terry? That hit cost 
your friend. Lord everybody-knows-who, more than your 
head’s worth, Terry.” 

“I ask your pardon, my lord, it never cost him a 
farthing.” 

‘‘When he paid £7000 for the plate, to redeem it? ” 

‘‘Well! and did not I make up for that at the races of 

? The creditors learned that my lord’s horse, Na- 

boclish, was to run at races ; and, as the sheriff’s officer 

knew he dare not touch him on the race-ground, what does 
he do, but he comes down early in the morning on the 
mail-coach, and walks straight down to the livery stables. 
He had an exact description of the stables, and the stall, 
and the horse’s body-clothes. 

‘‘I was there, seeing the horse taken care of ; and, know-' 
ing the cut of the fellow’s jib, what does I do, but whips 
the body-clothes off Naboclish, and claps them upon a gar- 
rone that the priest would not ride. 

‘‘In comes the bailiff — ‘Good morrow to you, sir,’ says 
I, leading out of the stable my lord’s horse, with an ould 
saddle and bridle on. 

‘‘ ‘Tim Neal,’ says I to the groom, who was rubbing 
down the garrone’s heels, ‘mind your hits to-day, and 
wee I wet the plate to-night.’ 

‘‘ ‘Not so fast, neither,’ says the bailiff — ‘here’s my writ 
for seizing the horse.’ 

‘‘ ‘Och,’ says I, ‘you wouldn’t be so cruel.’ 

‘‘ ‘That’s all my eye,’ says he, seizing the garrone, while 
I mounted Naboclish, and rode him off deliberately to ” 

‘‘Ha ! ha ! ha ! — That was neat, I grant you, Terry,” said 
Lord Clonbrony. ‘‘But what a dolt of a born ignoramus 
must that sheriff’s fellow have been, not to know Naboclish 
when he saw him ! ” 

‘‘But stay, my lord — stay. Miss Nugent — I have more 

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for you/* following her wherever she moved. did not 
let him off so, even. At the cant, I bid and bid against 
them for the pretended Naboclish, till I left him on their 
hands for 500 guineas. Ha! ha! ha! — was not that fam- 
ous? ” 

“But,” said Miss Nugent, “I cannot believe you are in 
earnest. Sir Terence. Surely this would be ” 

“What? — out with it, my dear Miss Nugent.’* 

“I am afraid of offending you.” 

“You can’t, my dear, I defy you — say the word that 
came to the tongue’s end; it’s always the best.” 

“I was going to say, swindling,” said the young lady, 
colouring deeply. 

“Oh ! you was going to say wrong, then ! It’s not called 
swindling amongst gentlemen who know the world — it’s 
only jockeying — fine sport — and very honourable to help 
a friend at a dead lift. Anything to get a friend out of a 
present pressing difficulty,” 

“And when the present difficulty is over, do your friends 
never think of the future? ” 

“The future! leave the future to posterity,” said Sir 
Terence; “I’m counsel only for the present; and when the 
evil comes, it’s time enough to think of it. I can’t bring 
the guns of my wits to bear till the enemy’s alongside of 
me, or within sight of me at the least. And besides, there 
never was a good commander yet, by sea or land, that 
would tell his little expedients beforehand, or before the 
very day of battle.” 

“It must be a sad thing,” said Miss Nugent, sighing 
deeply, “to be reduced to live by little expedients — daily 
expedients.” 

Lord Colambre struck his forehead, but said nothing. 

“But if you are beating your brains about your owir 
affairs, my Lord Colambre, my dear,” said Sir Terence, 
“there’s an easy way of settling your family affairs at 
once; and, since you don’t like little daily expedients. 
Miss Nugent, there’s one great expedient, and an ex- 
pedient for life, that will settle it all to your satisfaction 
— and ours. I hinted it delicately to you before, but, be- 

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tween friends, delicacy is impertinent; so I tell you, in 
plain English, you’ve nothing to do but go and propose 

yourself, just as you stand, to the heiress Miss B , that 

desires no better 

“Sir ! ” cried Lord Colambre, stepping forward, red with 
sudden anger. Miss Nugent laid her hand upon his arm — 

“Oh, my lord ! ’’ 

“Sir Terence O’Fay,’’ continued Lord Colambre, in a 
moderated tone, “you are wrong to mention that young 
lady’s name in such a manner.’’ 

“Why, then, I said only Miss B , and there are a 

whole hive of bees. But I’ll engage she’d thank me for 
what I suggested, and think herself the queen bee if my 
expedient was adopted by you.’’ 

“Sir Terence,’’ said his lordship, smiling, “if my father 
thinks proper that you should manage his affairs, and de- 
vise expedients for him, I have nothing to say on that 
point; but I must beg you will not trouble yourself to 
suggest expedients for me,' and that you will have the 
goodness to leave me to settle my own affairs.’’ 

Sir Terence made a low bow, and was silent for five sec- 
onds ; then turning to Lord Clonbrony, who looked much 
more abashed than he did — 

“By the wise one, my good lord, I believe there are some 
men — noblemen, too — that don’t know their friends from 
their enemies. It’s my firm persuasion, now, that if I had 
served you as I served my friend I was talking of, your son 
there would, ten to one, think I had done him an injury by 
saving the family plate.’’ 

“I certainly should, sir. The family plate, sir, is not the 
first object in my mind,’’ replied Lord Colambre; “family 

honour Nay, Miss Nugent, I must speak,’’ continued 

his lordship, perceiving, by her countenance, that she was 
alarmed. J 

“Never fear. Miss Nugent dear,’’ said Sir Terence; 
“I’m as cool as a cucumber. Faith! then, my Lord 
Colambre, I agree with you, that family honour’s a mighty 
fine thing, only troublesome to one’s self and one’s friends, 
and expensive to keep up with all the other expenses and 

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debts a gentleman has nowadays. So I, that am under 
no natural obligations to it by birth or otherwise, have just 
stood by through life, and asked myself, before I would 
volunteer being bound to it, what could this same family 
honour do for a man in this world? And, first and fore- 
most, I never remember to see family honour stand a man 
in much stead in a court of law — never saw family honour 
stand against an execution, or a custodiam, or an injunc- 
tion even. Tis a rare thing, this same family honour, and 
a very fine thing; but I never knew it yet, at a pinch, pay 
for a pair of boots even,’' added Sir Terence, drawing up 
his own with much complacency. 

At this moment Sir Terence was called out of the room 
by one who wanted to speak to him on particular business. 

'‘My dear father,” cried Lord Colambre, “do not follow 
him ; stay for one moment, and hear your son — your true 
friend.” 

Miss Nugent went out of the room, that she might leave 
the father and son at liberty. 

“Hear your natural friend for one moment,” cried Lord 
Colambre. “Let me beseech you, father, not to have re- 
course to any of these paltry expedients, but trust your 
son with the state of your affairs, and we shall find some 
honourable means ” 

“Yes, yes, yes, very true; when you’re of age, Colam- 
bre, we’ll talk of it; but nothing can be done till then. 
We shall get on, we shall get through, very well, till then, 
with Terry’s assistance. And I must beg you will not 
say a word more against Terry — I can’t bear it — I can’t 
hear it — I can’t do without him. Pray don’t detain me — 
I can say no more — except,” added he, returning to his 
usual concluding sentence, “that there need, at all events, 
be none of this, if people would but live upon their own 
estates, and kill their own mutton.” He stole out of the 
room, glad to escape, however shabbily, from present ex- 
planation and present pain. There are persons without 
resource who in difficulties return always to the same 
point, and usually to the same words. 

While Lord Colambre was walking up and down the 

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room, much vexed and disappointed at finding that he 
could make no impression on his father’s mind, nor obtain 
his confidence as to his family affairs. Lady Clonbrony’s 
woman, Mrs. Petito, knocked at the door, with a message 
from her lady, to beg, if Lord Colambre was by himself, he 
would go to her dressing-room, as she wished to have a 
conference with him. He obeyed her summons. 

"‘Sit down, my dear Colambre ” And she began 

precisely with her old sentence — 

“With the fortune I brought your father, and with my 
lord’s estate, I caw7it understand the meaning of all these 
pecuniary difficulties; and all that strange creature Sir 
Terence says is algebra to me, who speak English. And I 
am particularly sorry he was let in this morning — but he’s 
such a brute that he does not think anything of forcing 
one’s door, and he tells my footman he does not mind not 
at home a pinch of snuff. Now what can you do with a 
man who could say that sort of thing, you know — the 
world’s at an end.’’ 

“I wish my father had nothing to do with him, ma’am, 
as much as you can wish it,” said Lord Colambre; “but I 
have said all that a son can with propriety say, and with- 
out effect.” 

“What particularly provokes me against him,” continued 
Lady Clonbrony, “is what I have just heard from Grace, 
who was really hurt by it, too, for she is the warmest friend 
in the world : I allude to the creature’s indelicate way of 
touching upon a tender pint, and mentioning an amiable 
young heiress’s name. My dear Colambre, I trust you 
have given me credit for my inviolable silence all this time 
upon the pint nearest my heart. I am rejoiced to hear you 
was so warm when she was mentioned inadvertently by 
that brute, and I trust you now see the advantages of the 
projected union in as strong and agreeable a pint of view 
as I do, my own Colambre; and I should leave things to 
themselves, and let you prolong the dees of courtship as 
you please, only for what I now hear incidentally from my 
lord and the brute, about pecuniary embarrassments, and 
the necessity of something being done before next winter. 

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And indeed I think now, in propriety, the proposal can- 
not be delayed much longer; for the world begins to talk 
of the thing as done; and even Mrs. Broadhurst, I know, 
had no doubt that, if this contretemps about the poor Berryls 
had not occurred, your proposal would have been made 
before the end of last week." 

Our hero was not a man to make a proposal because 
Mrs. Broadhurst expected it, or to marry because the 
world said he was going to be married. He steadily said 
that, from the first moment the subject had been men- 
tioned, he had explained himself distinctly ; that the young 
lady’s friends could not, therefore, be under any doubt as 
to his intentions; that, if they had voluntarily deceived 
themselves, or exposed the lady in situations from which 
the world was led to make false conclusions, he was not 
answerable : he felt his conscience at ease — entirely so, as 
he was convinced that the young lady herself, for whose 
merit, talents, independence, and generosity of character 
he professed high respect, esteem, and adrtiiration, had no 
doubts either of the extent or the nature of his regard. 

"Regard, respect, esteem, admiration! — Why, my dear- 
est Colambre ! this is saying all I want ; satisfies me, and I 
am sure would satisfy Mrs. Broadhurst and Miss Broadhurst 
too." 

"No doubt it will, ma’am; but not if I aspired to the 
honour of Miss Broadhurst’s hand, or professed myself her 
lover." 

"My de^r, you are mistaken; Miss Broadhurst is too 
sensible a girl, a vast deal, to look for love, and a dying 
lover, and all that sort of stuff ; I am persuaded — indeed 
I have it from good, from the best authority — that the 
young lady — you know one must be delicate in these cases, 
where a young lady of such fortune, and no despicable 
family too is concerned; therefore I cannot speak quite 
plainly — but I say I have it from the best authority, that 
you would be preferred to any other suitor, and, in short, 
that " 

"I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you," 
cried Lord Colambre, colouring a good deal; "but you 

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must excuse me if I say, that the only authority on which 
I could believe this is one from which I am morally certain 
I shall never hear it — from Miss Broadhurst herself.” 

“Lord, child! if you would only ask her the question, 
she would tell you it is truth, I daresay.” 

”But as I have no curiosity on the subject, ma’am ” 

“Lord bless me! I thought everybody had curiosity. 
But still, without curiosity, I am sure it would gratify you 
when you did hear it; and can’t you just put the simple 
question? ” 

“Impossible! ” 

“Impossible! — now that is so very provoking when the 
thing is all but done. Well, take your own time; all I will 
ask of you then is, to let things go on as they are going — 
smoothly and pleasantly; and I’ll not press you farther on 
the subject at present. Let things go on smoothly, that’s 
all I ask, and say nothing.” 

“I wish I could oblige you, mother; but I cannot do 
this. Since you tell me that the world and Miss Broad- 
hurst’s friends have already misunderstood my intentions, 
it becomes necessary, in justice to the young lady and to 
myself, that I should make all further doubt impossible. 
I shall, therefore, put an end to it at once, by leaving town 
to-morrow.” 

Lady Clonbrony, breathless for a moment with surprise, 
exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Bless me ! leave town to-morrow ! J ust at the 
beginning of the season ! Impossible ! — I never saw such 
a precipitate, rash young man. But stay only a few weeks, 
Colambre ; the physicians advise Buxton for my rheumat- 
ism, and you shall take us to Buxton early in the season — 
you cannot refuse me that. Why, if Miss Broadhurst was 
a dragon, you could not be in a greater hurry to run away 
from her. What are you afraid of? ” 

“Of doing what is wrong — the only thing, I trust, of 
which I shall ever be afraid.” 

Lady Clonbrony tried persuasion and argument — such 
argument as she could use — but all in vain — Lord Colam- 
bre was firm in his resolution; at last, she came to tears; 
and her son, in much agitation, said — 

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*T cannot bear this, mother! I would do anything you 
ask, that I could do with honour; but this is impossible." 

"Why impossible? I will take all blame upon myself; 
and you are sure that Miss Broadhurst does not misunder- 
stand you, and you esteem her, and admire her, and all 
that ; and all I ask is, that you’ll go on as you are, and see 
more of her ; and how do you know but you may fall in 
love with her, as you call it, to-morrow? ’’ 

"Because, madam, since you press me so far, my affec- 
tions are engaged to another person. Do not look so 
dreadfully shocked, my dear mother — I have told you 
truly, that I think myself too young, much too young, yet, 
to marry. In the circumstances in which I know my family 
are, it is probable that I shall not for some years be able 
to marry as I wish. You may depend upon it that I shall 
not take any step, I shall not even declare my attachment 
to the object of my affection, without your knowledge; 
and, far from being inclined to follow headlong my own 
passions — strong as they are — be assured that the honour 
of my family, your happiness, my mother, my father’s, are 
my first objects: I shall never think of my own till these 
are secured.’’ 

Of the conclusion of this speech. Lady Clonbrony heard 
only the sound of the words ; from the moment her son 
had pronounced that his affections were engaged, she had 
been running over in her head every probable and impro- 
bable person she could think of ; at last, suddenly starting 
up, she opened one of the folding-doors into the next 
apartment, and called — 

"Grace ! — Grace Nugent ! — put down your pencil, Grace, 
this minute, and come here! ’’ 

Miss Nugent obeyed with her usual alacrity; and the 
moment she entered the room. Lady Clonbrony, fixing her 
eyes full upon her, said — 

"There’s your cousin Colambre tells me his affections are 
engaged.’’ 

"Yes, to Miss Broadhurst, no doubt,’’ said Miss Nugent, 
smiling, with a simplicity and openness of countenance 
which assured Lady Clonbrony that all was safe in that 

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quarter : a suspicion which had darted into her mind was 
dispelled. 

“No doubt. Ay, do you hear that no doubt ^ Colambre? 
— Grace, you see, has no doubt ; nobody has any doubt 
but yourself, Colambre. “ 

“And are your affections engaged, and not to Miss 
Broadhurst? “ said Miss Nugent, approaching Lord Colam- 
bre. 

“There now! you see how you surprise and disappoint 
everybody, Colambre.” 

“I am sorry that Miss Nugent should be disappointed,” 
said Lord Colambre. 

“But because I am disappointed, pray do not call me 
Miss Nugent, or turn away from me, as if you were dis- 
pleased.” 

“It must, then, be some Cambridgeshire lady, ’ ' said Lady 
Clonbrony. ‘T am sure I am very sorry he ever went to Cam- 
bridge, — Oxford I advised: one of the Miss Berryls, I pre- 
sume, who have nothing. I’ll have nothing more to do with 
those Berryls — there was the reason of the son’s vast intim- 
acy. Grace, you may give up all thoughts of Sir Arthur.” 

“I have no thoughts to give up, ma’am,” said Miss 
Nugent, smiling. “Miss Broadhurst,” continued she, 
going on eagerly with what she was saying to Lord Colam- 
bre — “Miss Broadhurst is my friend, a friend I love and 
admire ; but you will allow that I strictly kept my promise, 
never to praise her to you, till you should begin to praise 
her to me. Now recollect, last night, you did praise her 
to me, so justly, that I thought you liked her, I confess; 
so that it is natural I should feel a little disappointed. 
Now you know the whole of my mind ; I have no intention 
to encroach on your confidence ; therefore, there is no oc- 
casion to look so embarrassed. I give you my word, I 
will never speak to you again upon the subject, ’’said she, 
holding out her hand to him, “provided you will never 
again call me Miss Nugent. Am I not your own cousin 
Grace? — Do not be displeased with her.” 

“You are my own dear cousin Grace; and nothing 
can be farther from my mind than any thought of being 

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displeased with her; especially just at this moment, when 
I am going away, probably for a considerable time.” 

‘ ‘ Away ! — when ? — where ? ’ ’ 

“To-morrow morning, for Ireland.” 

“Ireland ! of all places,” cried Lady Clonbrony. “What 
upon earth puts it into your head to go to Ireland? You 
do very well to go out of the way of falling in love ridic- 
ulously, since that is the reason of your going ; but what put 
Ireland into your head, child?” 

“I will not presume to ask my mother what put Ireland 
out of her head,” said Lord Colambre, smiling; “but she 
will recollect that it is my native country.” 

“That was your father’s fault, not mine,” said Lady 
Clonbrony; “for I wished to have been confined in Eng- 
land ; but he would have it to say that his son and heir 
was born at Clonbrony Castle — and there was a great argu- 
ment between him and my uncle, and something about the 
Prince of Wales and Caernarvon Castle was thrown in, and 
that turned the scale, much against my will ; for it was my 
wish that my son should be an Englishman born — like my- 
self. But, after all, I don’t see that having the misfortune 
to be born in a country should tie one to it in any sort of 
way; and I should have hoped your English edicatiotiy 
Colambre, would have given you too liberal idears for that 
— so I reelly don’t see why you should go to Ireland merely 
because it’s your native country.” 

“Not merely because it is my native country; but I wish 
to go thither — I desire to become acquainted with it — be- 
cause it is the country in which my father's property lies, 
and from which we draw our subsistence.” 

“Subsistence! Lord bless me, what a word! fitter for a 
pauper than a nobleman — subsistence ! Then, if you are 
going to look after your father’s property, I hope you will 
make the agents do their duty, and send us remittances. 
And pray how long do you mean to stay? ” 

“Till I am of age, madam, if you have no objection. I 
will spend the ensuing months in travelling in Ireland ; and 
I will return here by the time I am of age, unless you and 
my father should, before that time, be in Ireland.” 

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“Not the least chance of that, if I can prevent it, I 
promise you,” said Lady Clonbrony. 

Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent sighed. 

“And I am sure I shall take it very unkindly of you, 
Colambre, if you go and turn out a partisan for Ireland, 
after all, like Grace Nugent.” 

“A partisan! no; — I hope not a partisan, but a friend,” 
said Miss Nugent. 

“Nonsense, child! — I hate to hear people, women espe- 
cially, and young ladies particularly, talk of being- friends 
to this country or that country. What can they know 
about countries? Better think of being friends to them- 
selves, and friends to their friends.” 

“I was wrong,” said Miss Nugent, “to call myself a 
friend to Ireland; I meant to say, that Ireland had been a 
friend to me; that I found Irish’ friends, when I had no 
other; an Irish home, when I had no other; that my earli- 
est and happiest years, under your kind care, had been 
spent there ; and that I can never forget that, my dear aunt 
— I hope you do not wish that I should.” 

“Heaven forbid, my sweet Grace!” said Lady Clon- 
brony, touched by her voice and manner — “Heaven forbid ! 
I don’t wish you to do or be anything but what you are; 
for I am convinced there’s nothing I could ask you would 
not do for me; and, I can tell you, there’s few things you 
could ask, love, I would not do for you.” 

A wish was instantly expressed in the eyes of her niece. 

Lady Clonbrony, though not usually quick at interpret- 
ing the wishes of others, understood and answered, before 
she ventured to make her request in words. 

“Ask anything but that, Grace. Return to Clonbrony, 
while I am able to live in London? That I never can or 
will do for you or anybody ! ” looking at her son in all the 
pride of obstinacy; “so there is an end of the matter. Go 
you where you please, Colambre ; and I shall stay where I 
please : — I suppose, as your mother, I have a right to say 
this much? ” 

Her son, with the utmost respect, assured her that he 
had no design to infringe upon her undoubted liberty of 
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judging for herself; that he had never interfered, except so 
far as to tell her circumstances of her affairs, with which she 
seemed to be totally unacquainted, and of which it might 
be dangerous to her to continue in ignorance. 

“Don’t talk to me about affairs,” cried she, drawing her 
hand away from her son. “Talk to my lord, or my lord’s 
agents, since you are going to Ireland, about business — I 
know nothing about business ; but this I know, I shall stay 
in England, and be in London, every season, as long as I 
can afford it ; and when I cannot afford to live here, I hope 
I shall not live anywhere. That’s my notion of life; and 
that’s my determination, once for all; for, if none of the 
rest of the Clonbrony family have any, I thank Heaven I 
have some spirit.” Saying this, with her most stately 
manner she walked out of the room. Lord Colambre in- 
stantly followed her; for, after the resolution and the 
promise he had made, he did not dare to trust himself at 
this moment with Miss Nugent. 

There was to be a concert this night at Lady Clon- 
brony’s, at which Mrs. and Miss Broadhurst were, of 
course, expected. That they might not be quite unpre- 
pared for the event of her son’s going to Ireland, Lady 
Clonbrony wrote a note to Mrs. Broadhurst, begging her 
to come half an hour earlier than the time mentioned in 
the cards, “that she might talk over something particular 
that had just occurred.” 

What passed at this cabinet council, as it seems to have 
had no immediate influence on affairs, we need not record. 
Suffice it to observe, that a great deal was said, and no- 
thing done. Miss Broadhurst, however, was not a young 
lady who could be easily deceived, even where her pas- 
sions were concerned. The moment her mother told her 
of Lord Colambre’s intended departure, she saw the whole 
truth. She had a strong mind — was capable of drawing 
aside, at once, the curtain of self-delusion, and looking 
steadily at the skeleton of truth — she had a generous, per- 
haps because a strong mind ; for, surrounded, as she had 
been from her childhood, by every means of self-indulgence 
which wealth and flattery could bestow, she had discovered 

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early, what few persons in her situation discover till late in 
life, that selfish gratifications may render us incapable of 
other happiness, but can never, of themselves, make us 
happy. Despising flatterers, she had determined to make 
herself friends — to make them in the only possible way — 
by deserving them. Her father made his immense fortune 
by the power and habit of constant, bold, and just calcula- 
tion. The power and habit which she had learned from 
him she applied on a far larger scale; with him, it was 
confined to speculations for the acquisition of money; 
with her, it extended to the attainment of happiness. He 
was calculating and mercenary: she was estimative and 
generous. 

Miss Nugent was dressing for the concert, or, rather, was 
sitting half-dressed before her glass, reflecting, when Miss 
Broadhurst came into her room. Miss Nugent immedi- 
ately sent her maid out of the room. 

“Grace,” said Miss Broadhurst, looking at Grace with 
an air of open, deliberate composure, “you and I are 
thinking of the same thing — of the same person.” 

“Yes, of Lord Colambre,” said Miss Nugent, ingenu- 
ously and sorrowfully. 

“Then I can put your mind at ease, at once, my dear 
friend, by assuring you that I shall think of him no more. 
That I have thought of him, I do not deny — I have 
thought, that if, notwithstanding the difference in our ages, 
and other differences, he had preferred me, I should have 
preferred him to any person who has ever yet addressed 
me. On our first acquaintance, I clearly saw that he was 
not disposed to pay court to my fortune ; and I had also 
then coolness of judgment sufficient to perceive that it was 
not probable he should fall in love with my person. But 
I was too proud in my humility, too strong in my honesty, 
too brave, too ignorant ; in short, I knew nothing of the 
matter. We are all of us, more or less, subject to the de- 
lusions of vanity, or hope, or love 1 — even I ! — who 

thought myself so clear-sighted, did not know how, with 
one’ flutter of his wings, Cupid can set the whole atmo- 
sphere in motion; change the proportions, size, colour, 

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value, of every object; lead us into a mirage^ and leave us 
in a dismal desert/' 

“My dearest friend!" said Miss Nugent, in a tone of 
true sympathy. 

“But none but a coward or a fool would sit down in the 
desert and weep, instead of trying to make his way back 
before the storm rises, obliterates the track, and overwhelms 
everything. Poetry apart, my dear Grace, you may be 
assured that I shall think no more of Lord Colambre." 

“I believe you are right. But I am sorry, very sorry, it 
must be so." 

“Oh, spare me your sorrow! " 

“My sorrow is for Lord Colambre," said Miss Nugent. 
“Where will he find such a wife? — Not in Miss Berryl, I 
am sure — pretty as she is ; a mere fine lady ! Is it possible 
that Lord Colambre — Lord Colambre ! — should prefer such 
a girl — Lord Colambre! " 

Miss Broadhurst looked at her friend as she spoke, and 
saw truth in her eyes ; saw that she had no suspicion that 
she was herself the person beloved. 

“Tell me, Grace, are you sorry that Lord Colambre is 
going away? " 

“No, I am glad. I was sorry when I first heard it; but 
now I am glad, very glad ; it may save him from a mar- 
riage unworthy of him, restore him to himself, and reserve 

him for the only woman I ever saw who is suited to 

him, who is equal to him, who would value and love him, 
as he deserves to be valued and loved." 

“Stop, my dear; if you mean me, I am not, and I never 
can be, that woman. Therefore, as you are my friend, and 
wish my happiness, as I sincerely believe you do, never, I 
conjure you, present such an idea before my mind again — 
it is out of my mind, I hope, for ever. It is important to 
me that you should know and believe this. At least I 
will preserve my friends. Now let this subject never be 
mentioned or alluded to again between us, my dear. We 
have subjects enough of conversation ; we need not have 
recourse to pernicious sentimental gossipings. There is a 
great difference between wanting a confidantey and treating 

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a friend with confidence. My confidence you possess ; all 
that ought, all that is to be known of my mind, you know, 

and Now I will leave you in peace to dress for the 

concert.” 

“Oh, don’t go! you don’t interrupt me. I shall be 
dressed in a few minutes; stay with me, and you may be 
assured, that neither now, nor at any other time, shall I 
ever speak to you on the subject you desire me to avoid. 
I entirely agree with you about confidantes and sentimen- 
tal gossipings. I love you for not loving them.” 

A thundering knock at the door announced the arrival 
of company. 

“Think no more of love, but as much as you please 
of friendship — dress yourself as fast as you can,” said 
Miss Broadhurst. “Dress, dress is the order of the 
day. ’ ’ 

“Order of the day and order of the night, and all for 
people I don’t care for in the least,” said Grace. “So life 
passes ! ” 

“Dear me. Miss Nugent,” cried Petito, Lady Clon- 
brony’s woman, coming in with a face of alarm, “not 
dressed yet ! My lady is gone down, and Mrs. Broadhurst 
and my Lady Pococke’s come, and the Honourable Mrs. 
Trembleham; and signor, the Italian singing gentleman, 
has been walking up and down the apartments there by 
himself, disconsolate, this half-hour, and I wondering all 
the time nobody rang for me — but my lady dressed. Lord 
knows how! without anybody. Oh, merciful! Miss Nu- 
gent, if you could stand still for one single particle of a 
second. So then I thought of stepping in to Miss Nugent ; 
for the young ladies are talking so fast, says I to myself, at 
the door, they will never know how time goes, unless I 
give ’em a hint. But now my lady is below, there’s no 
need, to be sure, to be nervous, so we may take the thing 
quietly, without being in a flustrum. Dear ladies, is not 
this now a very sudden motion of our young lord’s for 
Ireland? — Lud a mercy! Miss Nugent, I’m sure your 
motions is sudden enough ; and your dress behind is all. 
I’m sure, I can’t tell how.” — “Oh, never mind,” said the 

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young lady, escaping from her; *‘it will do very well, 
thank you, Petito/’ 

“It will do very well, never mind,” repeated Petito 
muttering to herself, as she looked after the ladies, whilst 
they ran downstairs. “I can’t abide to dress any young 
lady who says never mind, and it will do very well. That, 
and her never talking to one ^ or trusting one 

with the least bit of her secrets, is the thing I can’t put up 
with from Miss Nugent; and Miss Broadhurst holding the 
pins to me, as much as to say. Do your business, Petito, 
and don’t talk. — Now, that’s so impertinent, as if one 
wasn’t the same flesh and blood, and had not as good a 
right to talk of everything, and hear of everything, as 
themselves. And Mrs. Broadhurst, too, cabinet-councilling 
with my lady, and pursing up her city mouth when I come 
in, and turning off the discourse to snuff, forsooth; as if I 
was an ignoramus, to think they closeted themselves to 
talk of snuff. Now, I think a lady of quality’s woman has 
as good a right to be trusted with her lady’s secrets as with 
her jewels; and if my Lady Clonbrony was a real lady of 
quality, she’d know that, and consider the one as much 
my paraphernalia as the other. So I shall tell my lady 
to-night, as I always do when she vexes me, that I never 
lived in an Irish family before, and don’t know the ways 
of it — then she’ll tell me she was born in Hoxfordshire — 
then I shall say, with my saucy look, ‘Oh, was you, my 
lady? — I always forget that you was an Englishwoman’: 
then maybe she’ll say, ‘Forget! — you forget yourself 
strangely, Petito.’ Then I shall say, with a great deal of 
dignity, ‘If your ladyship thinks so, my lady. I’d better 
go.’ And I’d desire no better than that she would take 
me at my word; for my Lady Dashfort’s is a much better 
place. I’m told, and she’s dying to have me, I know.” 

And having formed this resolution, Petito concluded her 
apparently interminable soliloquy, and went with my lord’s 
gentleman into the antechamber, to hear the concert, and 
give her judgment on everything ; as she peeped in through 
the vista of heads into the Apollo saloon — for to-night the 
Alhambra was transformed into the Apollo saloon — she 

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saw that whilst the company, rank behind rank, in close 
semicircles, had crowded round the performers to hear a 
favourite singer, Miss Broadhurst and Lord Colambre were 
standing in the outer semicircle, talking to one another 
earnestly. Now would Petito have given up her reversion- 
ary dhance of the three nearly new gowns she expected 
from Lady Clonbrony, in case she stayed; or, in case she 
went, the reversionary chance of any dress of Lady Dash- 
fort’s except her scarlet velvet, merely to hear what Miss 
Broadhurst and Lord Colambre were saying. Alas! she 
could only see their lips move; and of what they were 
talking, whether of music or love, and whether the match 
was to be on or off, she could only conjecture. But the 
diplomatic style having now descended to waiting-maids, 
Mrs. Petito talked to her friends in the antechamber with 
as mysterious and consequential an air and tone, as a charge 
d'affaires, or as the lady of a charge d'affaires, could have 
assumed. She spoke of her private belief ; of the impres- 
sion left upon her mind ; and her confidantial reasons for 
thinking as she did; of her “having had it from the fount- 
ain's head’’; and of “her fear of any committal of her 
authorities.’’ 

Notwithstanding all these authorities. Lord Colambre 
left London next day, and pursued his way to Ireland, 
determined that he would see and judge of that country 
for himself, and decide whether his mother’s dislike to 
residing there was founded on caprice or reasonable causes. 

In the meantime, it was reported in London that his 
lordship was gone to Ireland to make out the title to some 
estate, which would be necessary for his marriage settle- 
ment with the great heiress, Miss Broadhurst. Whether 
Mrs. Petito or Sir Terence O’Fay had the greater share in 
raising and spreading this report, it would be difficult to 
determine ; but it is certain, however or by whomsoever 
raised, it was most useful to Lord Clonbrony, by keeping 
his creditors quiet. 


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CHAPTER VI. 

T he tide did not permit the packet to reach the 
Pigeon-house, and the impatient Lord Colambre 
stepped into a boat, and was rowed across the bay 
of Dublin. It was a fine summer morning. The sun 
shone bright on the Wicklow mountains. He admired, he 
exulted in the beauty of the prospect ; and all the early 
associations of his childhood, and the patriotic hopes of his 
riper years, swelled his heart as he approached the shores 
of his native land. But scarcely had he touched his mother 
earth, when the whole course of his ideas was changed; 
and if his heart swelled, it swelled no more with pleasur- 
able sensations, for instantly he found himself surrounded 
and attacked by a swarm of beggars and harpies,- with 
strange figures and stranger tones : some craving his char- 
ity, some snatching away his luggage, and at the same time 
bidding him “never trouble himself,’' and “never fear.” 
A scramble in the boat and on shore for bags and parcels 
began, and an amphibious fight betwixt men, who had 
one foot on sea and one on land, was seen ; and long and 
loud the battle of trunks and portmanteaus raged ! The 
vanquished departed, clinching their empty hands at their 
opponents, and swearing inextinguishable hatred; while 
the smiling victors stood at ease, each grasping his booty 
— bag, basket, parcel, or portmanteau ; “And, your honour, 
where will these go? — Where will we carry ’em all to, for 
your honour? ’’ was now the question. Without waiting 
for an answer, most of the goods were carried at the dis- 
cretion of the porters to the custom-house, where, to his 
lordship’s astonishment, after this scene of confusion, he 
found that he had lost nothing but his patience; all his 
goods were safe, and a few tinpennies made his officious 
porters happy men and boys; blessings were showered 
upon his honour, and he was left in peace at an excellent 
hotel in Street, Dublin. He rested, refreshed him- 

self, recovered his good-humour, and walked into the 
cofiFee-house, where he found several officers — English, 
Irish, and Scotch, One English officer, a very gentleman- 

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like, sensible-looking man, of middle age, was sitting reading 
a little pamphlet, when Lord Colambre entered ; he looked 
up from time to time, and in a few minutes rose and joined 
the conversation ; it turned upon the beauties and defects 
of the city of Dublin. Sir James Brooke, for that was the 
name of the gentleman, showed one of his brother officers 
the book which he had be^n reading, observing that, in his 
opinion, it contained one of the best views of Dublin which 
he had ever seen, evidently drawn by the hand of a master, 
though in a slight, playful, and ironical style: it was 
intercepted Letter from China,'' The conversation ex- 
tended from Dublin to various parts of Ireland, with all 
which Sir James Brooke showed that he was well ac- 
quainted. Observing that this conversation was particu- 
larly interesting to Lord Colambre, and quickly perceiving 
that he was speaking to one not ignorant of books. Sir 
James spoke of different representations and misrepresent- 
ations of Ireland. In answer to Lord Colambre’s inquiries, 
he named the works whigji had afforded him most satisfac- 
tion ; and with discrihiinative, not superficial celerity, 
touched on all ancient and modern authors, from Spenser 
and Davies to Young and Beaufort. Lord Colambre be- 
came anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of a gentleman 
who appeared so able and willing to afford him information. 
Sir James Brooke, on his part, was flattered by this eager- 
ness of attention, and pleased by our hero’s manners and 
conversation ; so that, to their mutual satisfaction, they 
spent much of their time together whilst they were at this 
hotel ; and, meeting frequently in society in Dublin, their 
acquaintance every day increased and grew into intimacy 
— an intimacy which was highly advantageous to Lord 
Colambre’s views of obtaining a just idea of the state of 
manners in Ireland. Sir James Brooke had at different 
periods been quartered in various parts of the country — 
had resided long enough in each to become familiar with 
the people, and had varied his residence sufficiently to 
form comparisons between different counties, their habits, 
and characteristics. Hence he had it in his power to direct 
the attention of our young observer at once to the points 

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most worthy of his examination, and to save him from the 
common error of travellers — the deducing general conclu- 
sions from a few particular cases, or arguing from excep- 
tions as if they were rules. Lord Colambre, from his 
family connexions, had of course immediate introduction 
into the best society in Dublin, or rather into all the good 
society of Dublin. In Dublin there is positively good 
company, and positively bad; but not, as in London, 
many degrees of comparison : not innumerable luminaries 
of the polite world, moving in different orbits of fashion, 
but all the bright planets of note and name move and re- 
volve in the same narrow limits. Lord Colambre did not 
find that either his father’s or his mother’s representations 
of society in Dublin resembled the reality, which he now 
beheld. Lady Clonbrony had, in terms of detestation, 
described Dublin such as it appeared to her soon after the 
Union; Lord Clonbrony had painted it with convivial 
enthusiasm, such as he saw it long and long before the 
Union, when first he drank claret at the fashionable clubs. 
This picture, unchanged in his memory, and unchangeable 
by his imagination, had remained, and ever would remain, 
the same. The hospitality of which the father boasted, 
the son found in all its warmth, but meliorated and refined ; 
less convivial, more social ; the fashion of hospitality had 
improved. To make the stranger eat or drink to excess, 
to set before him old wine and old plate, was no longer the 
sum of good breeding. The guest now escaped the pomp 
of grand entertainments; was allowed to enjoy ease and 
conversation, and to taste some of that feast of reason and 
that flow of soul so often talked of, and so seldom enjoyed. 
Lord Colambre found a spirit of improvement, a desire for 
knowledge, and a taste for science and literature, in most 
companies, particularly among gentlemen belonging to the 
Irish bar; nor did he in Dublin society see any of that con- 
fusion of ranks or predominance of vulgarity of which his 
mother had complained. Lady Clonbrony had assured 
him that, the last time she had been at the drawing-room 
at the Castle, a lady, whom she afterwards found to be a 
grocer’s wife, had turned angrily when her ladyship had 

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accidentally trodden on her train, and had exclaimed with 
a strong brogue, “Til thank you, ma’am, for the rest of 
# my tail.” 

Sir James Brooke, to whom Lord Colambre, without 
giving up his authority, mentioned the fact, declared that 
he had no doubt the thing had happened precisely as it 
was stated; but that this was one of the extraordinary 
cases which ought not to pass into a general rule— that it 
was a slight instance of that influence of temporary causes, 
from which no conclusions, as to national manners, should 
be drawn. 

“I happened,” continued Sir James, “to be quartered in 
Dublin soon after the Union took place; and I remember 
the great but transient change that appeared. From the i 
removal of both Houses of Parliament, most of the nobil- 
ity, and many of the principal families among the Irish 
commoners, either hurried in high hopes to London, or 
retired disgusted and in despair to their houses in the 
country. Immediately, in Dublin, commerce rose into the 
vacated seats of rank ; wealth rose into the place of birth. 
New faces and new equipages appeared; people, who had 
never been heard of before, started into notice, pushed 
themselves forward, not scrupling to elbow their way even 
at the Castle ; and they were presented to my lord-lieuten- 
ant and to my lady-lieutenant; for their excellencies, for 
the time being, might have played their vice-regal parts to 
empty benches, had they not admitted such persons for 
the moment to fill their court. Those of former times, of 
hereditary pretensions and high-bred minds and manners, 
were scandalised at all this; and they complained, with 
justice, that the whole tone of society was altered ; that the 
decorum, elegance, polish, and charm of society was gone ; 
and I among the rest” (said Sir James) “felt and deplored 
their change. But, now it is all over, we may acknowledge 
that, perhaps, even those things which we felt most dis- 
agreeable at the time were productive of eventual benefit. 

“Formerly, a few families had set the fashion. From 
time immemorial everything had, in Dublin, been sub- 
mitted to their hereditary authority; and conversation, 

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though it had been rendered polite by their example, was, 
at the same time, limited within narrow bounds. Young 
people, educated upon a more enlarged plan, in time grew 
up; and, no authority or fashion forbidding it, necessarily 
rose to their just place, and enjoyed their due influence in 
society. The want of manners, joined to the want of 
' knowledge in the new set, created universal disgust : they 
; were compelled, some by ridicule, some by bankruptcies, 
to fall back into their former places, from which they could 
never more emerge. In the meantime, some of the Irish 
nobility and gentry who had been living at an unusual ex- 
pense in London — an expense beyond their incomes — were 
glad to return home to refit ; and they brought with them 
a new stock of ideas, and some taste for science and liter- 
ature, which, within these latter years, have become fash- 
ionable, indeed indispensable, in London. That part of 
the Irish aristocracy, who, immediately upon the first in- 
cursions of the vulgarians, had fled in despair to their fast- 
nesses in the country, hearing of the improvements which 
had gradually taken place in society, and assured of the 
final expulsion of the barbarians, ventured from their re- 
treats, and returned to their posts in town. So that now,” 
concluded Sir James, “you find a society in Dublin com- 
posed of a most agreeable and salutary mixture of birth 
and education, gentility and knowledge, manner and mat- 
ter; and you see pervading the whole new life and energy, 
new talent, new ambition, a desire and a determination to 
improve and be improved — a perception that higher dis- 
tinction can now be obtained in almost all company, by 
genius and merit, than by airs and dress. ... So 
much for the higher order. Now, among the class of 
tradesmen and shopkeepers, you may amuse yourself, my 
lord, with marking the difference between them and persons 
of the same rank in London.” 

Lord Colambre had several commissions to execute for 
his English friends, and he made it his amusement in every 
shop to observe the manners and habits of the people. He 
remarked that there are in Dublin two classes of trades- 
people : one, who go into business with intent to make it 

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their occupation for life, and as a slow but sure means of 
providing for themselves and their families ; another class, 
who take up trade merely as a temporary resource, to 
which they condescend for a few years, trusting that they 
shall, in that time, make a fortune, retire, and commence 
or recommence gentlemen. The Irish regular men of busi- 
ness are like all other men of business — punctual, frugal, 
careful, and so forth ; with the addition of more intelli- 
gence, invention, and enterprise than are usually found in 
Englishmen of the same rank. But the Dublin tradesmen 
pro tempore are a class by themselves ; they begin without 
capital, buy stock upon credit in hopes of making large 
profits, and, in the same hopes, sell upon credit. Now, if 
the credit they can obtain is longer than that which they 
are forced to give, they go on and prosper; if not, they 
break, turn bankrupts, and sometimes, as bankrupts, thrive. 
By such men, of course, every short cut to fortune is fol- 
lowed ; whilst every habit, which requires time to prove its 
advantage, is disregarded ; nor with such views can a char- 
acter for punctuality have its just value. In the head of a 
man who intends to be a tradesman to-day, and a gentleman 
to-morrow, the ideas of the honesty and the duties of a 
tradesman, and of the honour and the accomplishments of 
a gentleman, are oddly jumbled together, and the charac- 
teristics of both are lost in the compound. 

He will oblige you, but he will not obey you ; he will do 
you a favour, but he will not do you justice ; he will do 
anything to serve you, but the particular thing you order he 
neglects; he asks your pardon, for he would not, for all 
the goods in his warehouse, disoblige you ; not for the sake 
of your custom, but he has a particular regard for your 
family. Economy, in the eyes of such a tradesman, is, if 
not a mean vice, at least a shabby virtue, which he is too 
polite to suspect his customers of, and particularly proud 
to prove himself superior to. Many London tradesmen, 
after making their thousands and their tens of thousands, 
feel pride in still continuing to live like plain men of busi- 
ness; but from the moment a Dublin tradesman of this 
style has made a few hundreds, he sets up his gig, and then 

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his head is in his carriage, and not in his business; and 
when he has made a few thousands, he buys or builds a 
country-house — and then, and thenceforward, his head, 
heart, and soul are in his country-house, and only his body 
in the shop with his customers. 

Whilst he is making money, his wife, or rather his lady, 
is spending twice as much out of town as he makes in it. 
At the word country-house, let no one figure to himself a 
snug little box, like that in which a warm London citizen, 
after long years of toil, indulges himself, one day out of 
seven, in repose — enjoying from his gazebo the smell of the 
dust, and the view of passing coaches on the London road. 
No : these Hibernian villas are on a much more magnificent 
scale ; some of them formerly belonged to Irish members 
of Parliament, who are at a distance from their country- 
seats. After the Union these were bought by citizens and 
tradesmen, who spoiled, by the mixture of their own fancies, 
what had originally been designed by men of good taste. 

Some time after Lord Colambre’s arrival in Dublin, he had 
an opportunity of seeing one of these villas, which belonged 
to Mrs. Raffarty, a grocer’s lady, and sister to one of Lord 
Clonbrony’s agents, Mr. Nicholas Garraghty. Lord Co- 
lambre was surprised to find that his father’s agent resided 
in Dublin : he had been used to see agents, or stewards, as 
they are called in England, live in the country, and usually 
on the estate of which they have the management. Mr. 
Nicholas Garraghty, however, had a handsome house-in a 
fashionable part of Dublin. Lord Colambre called several 
times to see him, but he was out of town, receiving rents 
for some other gentlemen, as he was agent for more than 
one property. 

Though our hero had not the honour of seeing Mr. Gar- 
raghty, he had the pleasure of finding Mrs. Raffarty one 
day at her brother’s house. Just as his lordship came to 
the door, she was going, on her jaunting-car, to her villa, 
called Tusculum, situate near Bray. She spoke much of 
the beauties of the vicinity of Dublin; found his lordship 
was going with Sir James Brooke and a party of gentlemen 
to see the county of Wicklow ; and his lordship and party 

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were entreated to do her the honour of taking in his way a 
little collation at Tusculum. 

Our hero was glad to have an opportunity of seeing more 
of a species of fine lady with which he was unacquainted. 

The invitation was verbally made, and verbally accepted ; 
but the lady afterwards thought it necessary to send a 
written invitation in due form, and the note she sent 
directed to the most right honourable the Lord Viscount 
Colambre. On opening it he perceived that it could not 
have been intended for him. It ran as follows : 

My dear Juliana O’Leary, 

I have got a promise from Colambre, that he will be with us 
at Tusculum on Friday the 20th, in his way from the county of 
Wicklow, for the collation I mentioned; and expect a large 
party of officers; so pray come early, with your house, or as 
many as the jaunting-car can bring. And pray, my dear, be 

elegant. You need not let it transpire to Mrs. O’G ; but 

make my apologies to Miss O’G , if she says anything, and 

tell her I’m quite concerned I can’t ask her for that day; be- 
cause, tell her, I’m so crowded, and am to have none that day 
but real quality . — Yours ever and ever, 

Anastasia Raffarty. 

F.S . — And I hope to make the gentlemen stop the night with 
me ; so will not have beds. Excuse haste, and compliments, etc. 

Tusculum, Sunday 15. 

After a charming tour in the county of Wicklow, where 
the beauty of the natural scenery, and the taste with which 
those natural beauties had been cultivated, far surpassed 
the sanguine expectations Lord Colambre had formed, his 
lordship and his companions arrived at Tusculum, where 
he found Mrs. Raffarty, and Miss Juliana O’Leary, very 
elegant, with a large party of the ladies and gentlemen of 
Bray, assembled in a drawing-room, fine with bad pictures 
and gaudy gilding; the windows were all shut, and the 
company were playing cards with all their might. This 
was the fashion of the neighbourhood. In compliment to 
Lord Colambre and the officers, the ladies left the card- 
tables; and Mrs. Raffarty, observing that his lordship 

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seemed partial to walking, took him out, as she said, “to 
do the honours of nature and art.“ 

His lordship was much amused by the mixture, which 
was now exhibited to him, of taste and incongruity, in- 
genuity and absurdity, genius and blunder ; by the contrast 
between the finery and vulgarity, the affectation and ignor- 
ance of the lady of the villa. We should be obliged to stop 
too long at Tusculum were we to attempt to detail all the 
odd circumstances of this visit; but we may record an 
example or two which may give a sufficient idea of the 
whole. 

In the first place, before they left the drawing-room. Miss 
Juliana O’Leary pointed out to his lordship’s attention a 
picture over the drawing-room chimney-piece. “Is not it 
a fine piece, my lord?’’ said she, naming the price Mrs. 
Raffarty had lately paid for it at an auction. — “It has a 
right to be a fine piece, indeed; for it cost a fine price! “ 
Nevertheless this fine piece was a vile daub; and our hero 
could only avoid the sin of flattery, or the danger of offend- 
ing the lady, by protesting that he had no judgment in 
pictures. 

“Indeed, I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur or cono- 
scenti myself; but I’m told the style is undeniably modern. 
And was not I lucky, Juliana, not to let that Medona be 
knocked down to me? I was just going to bid, when I 
heard such smart bidding; but fortunately the auctioneer 
let out that it was done by a very old master — a hundred 
years old. Oh! your most obedient, thinks I! — if that’s 
the case, it’s not for my money; so I bought this, in lieu 
of the smoke-dried thing, and had it a bargain.’’ 

In architecture, Mrs. Raffarty had as good a taste and as 
much skill as in painting. There had been a handsome 
portico in front of the house ; but this interfering with the 
lady’s desire to have a veranda, which she said could not 
be dispensed with, she had raised the whole portico to the 
second story, where it stood, or seemed to stand, upon a 
tarpaulin roof. But Mrs. Raffarty explained that the pil- 
lars, though they looked so properly substantial, were 
really hollow and as light as feathers, and were supported 

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with cramps, without disobliging the front wall of the house 
at all to signify. 

“Before she showed the company any farther,” she said, 
“she must premise to his lordship, that she had been 
originally stinted in room for her improvements, so that 
she could not follow her genius liberally; she had been 
reduced to have some things on a confined scale, and oc- 
casionally to consult her pocket-compass; but she prided 
herself upon having put as much into a light pattern as 
could well be; that had been her whole ambition, study, 
and problem, for she was determined to have at least the 
honour of having a little taste of everything at Tusculum.” 

So she led the way to a little conservatory, and a little 
pinery, and a little grapery, and a little aviary, and a little 
pheasantry, and a little dairy for show, and a little cottage 
for ditto, with a grotto full of shells, and a little hermitage 
full of earwigs, and a little ruin full of looking-glass, “to 
enlarge and multiply the effect, of the Gothic.” “But you 
could only put your head in, because it was just fresh 
painted, and though there had been a fire ordered in the 
ruin all night, it had only smoked.” 

In all Mrs. Raffarty’s buildings, whether ancient or 
modern, there was a studied crookedness. 

“Yes,” she said, “she hated everything straight, it was 
so formal and unpicturesque. Uniformity and conformity,” 
she observed, ^‘had their day; but now, thank the stars of 
the present day, irregularity and difformity bear the bell, 
and have the majority.” 

As they proceeded and walked through the grounds, 
from which Mrs. Raffarty, though she had done her best, 
could not take that which nature had given, she pointed 
out to my lord “a happy moving termination,” consisting 
of a Chinese bridge, with a fisherman leaning over the rails. 
On a sudden, the fisherman was seen to tumble over the 
bridge into the water. The gentlemen ran to extricate 
the poor fellow, while they heard Mrs. Raffarty bawling to 
his lordship to beg he would never mind, and not trouble 
himself. 

When they arrived at the bridge, they saw the man 

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hanging from part of the bridge, and apparently struggling 
in the water; but when they attempted to pull him up, 
they found it was only a stuffed figure which had been 
pulled into the stream by a real fish, which had seized hold 
of the bait. 

Mrs. Raffarty, vexed by the fisherman’s fall, and by the 
laughter it occasioned, did not recover herself sufficiently 
to be happily ridiculous during the remainder of the walk, 
nor till dinner was announced, when she apologised for 
“having changed the collation, at first intended, into a 
dinner, which she hoped would be found no bad substitute, 
and which she flattered herself might prevail on my lord 
and the gentlemen to sleep, as there was no moon.” 

The dinner had two great faults — profusion and preten- 
sion. There was, in fact, ten times more on the table than 
was necessary; and the entertainment was far above the 
circumstances of the person by whom it was given ; for in- 
stance, the dish of fish at the head of the table had been 
brought across the island from Sligo, and had cost five 
guineas; as the lady of the house failed not to make 
known. But, after all, things were not of a piece ; there 
was a disparity between the entertainment and the attend- 
ants; there was no proportion or fitness of things — a pain- 
ful endeavour at what could not be attained, and a toiling 
in vain to conceal and repair deficiencies and blunders. 
Had the mistress of the house been quiet ; had she, as Mrs. 
Broadhurst would say, but let things alone, let things take 
their course, all would have passed off with well-bred peo- 
ple; but she was incessantly apologising, and fussing, and 
fretting inwardly and outwardly, and directing and calling 
to her servants — striving to make a butler who was deaf, a 
boy who was hare-brained, do the business of five accom- 
plished footmen of parts and figure. The mistress of the 
house called for “plates, clean plates! — hot plates! ” 

“But none did come, when she did call for them.” 

Mrs. Raffarty called “Larry! Larry! My lord’s plate, 
there! — James! bread to Captain Bowles! — James! port 
wine to the major! — James! James Kenny! James!” 

“And panting James toiled after her in vain.” 

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At length one course was fairly got through, and after a 
torturing half-hour, the second course appeared, and James 
Kenny was intent upon one thing, and Larry upon another, 
so that the wine-sauce for the hare was spilt by their col- 
lision ; but, what was worse, there seemed little chance 
that the whole of this second course should ever be placed 
altogether rightly upon the table. Mrs. Raffarty cleared 
her throat, and nodded, and pointed, and sighed, and set 
Larry after Kenny, and Kenny after Larry ; for what one 
did, the other undid ; and at last the lady’s anger kindled, 
and she spoke : 

“Kenny! James Kenny! set the sea-cale at this corner, 
and put down the grass cross-corners; and match your 
macaroni yonder with them puddens, set — Ogh ! James! 
the pyramid in the middle, can’t ye? ’’ 

The pyramid, in changing places, was overturned. Then 
it was that the mistress of the feast, falling back in her seat, 
and lifting up her hands and. eyes in despair, ejaculated, 
“Oh, James! James!’’ 

The pyramid was raised by the assistance of the military 
engineers, and stood trembling again on its base; but the 
lady’s temper could not be so easily restored to its equi- 
librium. 

The comedy of errors, which this day’s visit exhibited, 
amused all the spectators. But Lord Colambre, after he 
had smiled, sometimes sighed. — Similar foibles and follies 
in persons of different rank, fortune, and manner, appear 
to common observers so unlike, that they laugh without 
scruples of conscience in one case, at what in another 
ought to touch themselves most nearly. It was the same 
desire to appear what they were not, the same vain ambi- 
tion to vie with superior rank and fortune, or fashion, 
which actuated Lady Clonbrony and Mrs. Raffarty; and 
whilst this ridiculous grocer’s wife made herself the sport 
of some of her guests. Lord Colambre sighed, from the 
reflection that what she was to them, his mother was to 
persons in a higher rank of fashion. — He sighed still more 
deeply, when he considered, that, in whatever station or 
with whatever fortune, extravagance, that is the living 

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beyond our income, must lead to distress and meanness, 
and end in shame and ruin. In the morning, as they were 
riding away from Tusculum and talking over their visit, 
the officers laughed heartily, and rallying Lord Colambre 
upon his seriousness, accused him of having fallen in love 
with Mrs. Raffarty, or with the elegant Miss Juliana. Our 
hero, who wished never to be nice overmuch, or serious 
out of season, laughed with those that laughed, and en- 
deavoured to catch the spirit of the jest. But Sir James 
Brooke, who now was well acquainted with his counten- 
ance, and who knew something of the history of his family, 
understood his real feelings, and, sympathising in them, 
endeavoured to give the conversation a new turn. 

“Look there, Bowles,” said he, as they were just riding 
into the town of Bray; “look at the barouche, standing at 
that green door, at the farthest end of the town. Is not 
that Lady Dashfort’s barouche? ” 

“It looks like what she sported in Dublin last year,” 
said Bowles; “but you don’t think she’d give us the same 
two seasons? Besides, she is not in Ireland, is she? I did 
not hear of her intending to come over again.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said another officer; “she will 
come again to so good a market, to marry her other 
daughter. I hear she said, or swore, that she will marry 
the young widow. Lady Isabel, to an Irish nobleman.” 

“Whatever she says, she swears, and whatever she swears, 
she’ll do,” replied Bowles. “Have a care, my Lord Co- 
lambre; if she sets her heart upon you for Lady Isabel, she 
has you. Nothing can save you. Heart she has none, so 
there you’re safe, my lord,” said the other officer; “but if 
Lady Isabel sets her eye upon you, no basilisk’s is surer.” 

“But if Lady Dashfort had landed I am sure we should 
have heard of it, for she makes noise enough wherever she 
goes; especially in Dublin, where all she said and did was 
echoed and magnified, till one could hear of nothing else. 
I don’t think she has landed.” 

“I hope to Heaven they may never land again in Ire- 
land!” cried Sir James Brooke; “one worthless woman, 
especially one worthless Englishwoman of rank, does in- 

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calculable mischief in a country like this, which looks up 
to the sister country for fashion. For my own part, as a 
warm friend to Ireland, I would rather see all the toads 
and serpents, and venomous reptiles, that St. Patrick car- 
ried off in his bag, come back to this island, than these two 
dashers. Why, they would bite half the women and girls 
in the kingdom with the rage for mischief, before half the 
husbands and fathers could turn their heads about. And, 
once bit, there’s no cure in nature or art.” 

“No horses to this barouche! ” cried Captain Bowles. — 
“Pray, sir, whose carriage is this?” said the captain to a 
servant who was standing beside it. 

“My Lady Dashfort, sir, it belongs to,” answered the 
servant, in rather a surly English tone; and turning to a 
boy who was lounging at the door — “Pat, bid them bring 
out the horses, for my ladies is in a hurry to get home.” 

Captain Bowles stopped to make his servant alter the 
girths of his horse, and to satisfy his curiosity; and the 
whole party halted. Captain Bowles beckoned to the land- 
lord of the inn, who was standing at his door. 

“So, Lady Dashfort is here again? — This is her barouche, 
is not it? ” 

“Yes, sir, she is — it is.” 

“And has she sold her fine horses?” 

“Oh no, sir — this is not her carriage at all — she is not 
here. That is, she is here, in Ireland ; but down in the 
county of Wicklow, on a visit. And this is not her own 
carriage at all ; — that is to say, not that which she has with 
herself, driving; but only just the cast barouche like, as 
she keeps for the lady’s-maids.” 

“For the lady’s-maids! that is good! that is new, faith! 
— Sir James, do you hear that? ” 

“Indeed, then, and it’s true, and not a word of a lie! ” 
said the honest landlord. ‘‘And this minute, we’ve got a 
directory of five of them abigails, sitting within in our 
house; as fine ladies, as great dashers, too, every bit as 
their principals ; and kicking up as much dust on the road, 
every grain! — Think of them, now! The likes of them, 
that must have four horses, and would not stir a foot with 

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one less! — As the gentleman’s gentleman there was telling 
and boasting to me about now, when the barouche was 
ordered for them, there at the lady’s house, where Lady 
Dashfort is on a visit — they said they would not get in till 
they’d get four horses; and their ladies backed them; and 
so the four horses was got; and they just drove out here, 
to see the points of view for fashion’s sake, like their bet- 
ters ; and up with their glasses, like their ladies ; and then 
out with their watches, and ‘Isn’t it time to lunch?’ So 
there they have been lunching within on what they brought 
with them ; for nothing in our house could they touch, of 
course ! They brought themselves a picknick lunch, with 
Madeira and Champagne to wash it down. Why, gentle- 
men, what do you think, but a set of them, as they were 
bragging to me, turned out of a boarding-house at Chelten- 
ham, last year, because they had not peach-pies to their 
lunch ! — But here they come ! shawls, and veils, and all ! — 
streamers flying ! But mum is my cue ! — Captain, are these 
girths to your fancy now? ” said the landlord, aloud ; then, 
as he stooped to alter a buckle, he said, in a voice meant to 
be heard only by Captain Bowles, “If there’s a tongue, 
male or female, in the three kingdoms, it’s in that foremost 
woman, Mrs. Petito.” 

“Mrs. Petito!’’ repeated Lord Colambre, as the name 
caught his ear; and, approaching the barouche in which 
the five abigails were now seated, he saw the identical Mrs. 
Petito, who, when he left London, had been in his mother’s 
service. 

She recognised his lordship with very gracious intimacy ; 
and, before he had time to ask any questions, she answered 
all she conceived he was going to ask, and with a volubility 
which justified the landlord’s eulogium of her tongue. 

“Yes, my lord! I left my Lady Clonbrony some time 
back— the day after you left. town; and both her ladyship 
and Miss Nugent was charmingly, and would have sent 
their loves to your lordship. I’m sure, if they’d any notion 
I should have met you, my lord, so soon. And I was very 
sorry to part with them; but the fact was, my lord,’’ said 
Mrs. Petito, laying a detaining hand upon Lord Colambre’s 


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whip, one end of which he unwittingly trusted within her 
reach, — “I and my lady had a little difference, which the 
best friends, you know, sometimes have; so my Lady 
»Clonbrony was so condescending to give me up to my 
Lady Dashfort — and I knew no more than the child un- 
born that her ladyship had it in contemplation to cross the 
seas. But, to oblige my lady, and as Colonel Heathcock, 
with his regiment of militia, was coming for purtection in 
the packet at the same time, and we to have the govern- 
ment-yacht, I waived my objections to Ireland. And, 
indeed, though I was greatly frighted at first, having heard 
all we’ve heard, you know, my lord, from Lady Clonbrony, 
of there being no living in Ireland, and expecting to see no 
trees nor accommodation, nor anything but bogs all along; 
yet I declare, I was very agreeably surprised ; for, as far as 
I’ve seen at Dublin and in the vicinity, the accommoda- 
tions, and everything of that nature, now is vastly put-up- 
able with ! ’ ’ — ‘ ‘ My lord, ’ ’ said Sir J ames Brooke, ‘ ‘ we shall 
be late.” Lord Colambre, shortly withdrawing his whip 
from Mrs. Petito, turned his horse away. She, stretching 
over the back of the barouche as he rode off, bawled to 
him — 

“My lord, we’re at Stephen’s Green, when we’re at 
Dublin.” But as he did not choose to hear, she raised her 
voice to its highest pitch, adding — 

“And where are you, my lord, to be found? — as I have 
a parcel of Miss Nugent’s for you.” 

Lord Colambre instantly turned back, and gave his 
direction. 

“Cleverly done, faith!” said the major. “I did not 
hear her say when Lady Dashfort is to be in town,” said 
Captain Bowles. 

“What, Bowles! have you a mind to lose more of your 
guineas to Lady Dashfort, and to be jockied out of another 
horse by Lady Isabel? ” 

.“Oh! confound it — no! I’ll keep out of the way of 
that— I have had enough,” said Captain Bowles; “it is 
my Lord Colambre’s turn now; you hear that Lady Dash- 
fort would be very proud to see him. His lordship is in 

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for it, and with such an auxiliary as Mrs. Petito, Lady 
Dashfort has him for Lady Isabel, as sure as he has a heart 
or hand.” 

“My compliments to the ladies, but my heart is en- 
gaged,” said Lord Colambre; “and my hand shall go with 
my heart, or not at all.” 

“Engaged ! engaged to a very amiable, charming woman, 
no doubt,” said Sir James Brooke. “I have an excellent 
opinion of your taste; and if you can return the compli- 
ment to my judgment, take my advice: don’t trust to 
your heart’s being engaged, much less plead that engage- 
ment ; for it would be Lady Dashfort’s sport, and Lady 
Isabel’s joy, to make you break your engagement, and 
break your mistress’s heart; the fairer, the more amiable, 
the more beloved, the greater the triumph, the greater the 
delight in giving pain. All the time love would be out of 
the question ; neither mother nor daughter would care if 
you were hanged, or, as Lady Dashfort would herself have 
expressed it, if you were d — d.” 

“With such women, I should think a man’s heart could 
be in no great danger,” said Lord Colambre. 

“There you might be mistaken, my lord; there’s a way 
to every man’s heart, which no man in his own case is 
aware of, but which every woman knows right well, and 
none better than these ladies — by his vanity.” 

“True,” said Captain Bowles. 

“I am not so vain as to think myself without vanity,” 
said Lord Colambre; “but love, I should imagine, is a 
stronger passion than vanity.” 

“You should imagine! Stay till you are tried, my lord. 
Excuse me,” said Captain Bowles, laughing. 

Lord Colambre felt the good sense of this, and deter- 
mined to have nothing to do with these dangerous ladies; 
indeed, though he had talked, he had scarcely yet thought 
of them ; for his imagination was intent upon that packet 
from Miss Nugent, which Mrs. Petito said she had for him. 
He heard nothing of it, or of her, for some days. He sent 
his servant every day to Stephen’s Green to inquire if Lady 
Dashfort had returned to town. Her ladyship at last re- 

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turned ; but Mrs. Petito could not deliver the parcel to any 
hand but Lord Colambre’s own, and she would not stir 
out, because her lady was indisposed. No longer able to 
restrain his impatience, Lord Colambre went himself — 
knocked at Lady Dashfort’s door — inquired for Mrs. Petito 
— was shown into her parlour. The parcel was delivered 
to him ; but to his utter disappointment, it was a parcel 
for, not from Miss Nugent. It contained merely an odd 
volume of some book of Miss Nugent’s which Mrs. Petito 
said she had put up along with her things in a mistake, and 
she thought it her duty to return.it by the first opportunity 
of a safe conveyance. 

Whilst Lord Colambre, to comfort himself for his disap- 
pointment, was fixing his eyes upon Miss Nugent’s name, 
written by her own hand, in the first leaf of the book, the 
door opened, and the figure of an interesting-looking 
woman, in deep mourning, appeared — appeared for one 
moment, and retired. 

‘ ‘ Only my Lord Colambre, about a parcel I was bringing 
for him from England, my lady — my Lady Isabel, my 
lord,” said Mrs. Petito. Whilst Mrs. Petito was saying 
this, the entrance and retreat had been made, and made 
with such dignity, grace, and modesty; with such inno- 
cence, dove-like eyes had been raised upon him, fixed and 
withdrawn ; with such a gracious bend the Lady Isabel had 
bowed to him as she retired ; with such a smile, and with 
so soft a voice, had repeated “Lord Colambre!” that his 
lordship, though well aware that all this was mere acting, 
could not help saying to himself as he left the house : 

“It is a pity it is only acting. There is certainly some- 
thing very engaging in this woman. It is a pity she is an 
actress. And so young! A much younger woman than 
I expected. A widow before most women are wives. So 
young, surely she cannot be such a fiend as they described 
her to be ! ’ A few nights afterwards Lord Colambre was 
with some of his acquaintance at the theatre, when Lady 
Isabel and her mother came into the box, where seats had 
been reserved for them, and where their appearance in- 
stantly made that sensation which is usually created by the 

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entrance of persons of the first notoriety in the fashionable 
world. Lord Colambre was not a man to be dazzled by 
fashion, or to mistake notoriety for deference paid to merit, 
and for the admiration commanded by beauty or talents. 
Lady Dashfort’s coarse person, loud voice, daring manners, 
and indelicate wit, disgusted him almost past endurance. 
He saw Sir James Brooke in the box opposite to him ; and 
twice determined to go round to him. His lordship had 
crossed the benches, and once his hand was upon the lock 
of the door ; but attracted as much by the daughter as re- 
pelled by the mother, he could move no farther. The 
mother’s masculine boldness heightened, by contrast, the 
charms of the daughter’s soft sentimentality. The Lady 
Isabel seemed to shrink from the indelicacy of her mother’s 
manners, and seemed peculiarly distressed by the strange 
efforts Lady Dashfort made, from time to time, to drag 
her forward, and to fix upon her the attention of gentle- 
men. Colonel Heathcock, who, as Mrs. Petito had in- 
formed Lord Colambre, had come over with his regiment 
to Ireland, was beckoned into their box by Lady Dashfort, 
by her squeezed into a seat next to Lady Isabel ; but Lady 
Isabel seemed to feel sovereign contempt, properly re- 
pressed by politeness, for what, in a low whisper to a 
female friend on the other side of her, she called, “the 
self-sufficient inanity of this sad coxcomb.’’ Other cox- 
combs, of a more vivacious style, who stationed themselves 
round her mother, or to whom her mother stretched from 
box to box to talk, seemed to engage no more of Lady 
Isabel’s attention than just what she was compelled to give 
by Lady Dashfort’s repeated calls of — 

“Isabel! Isabel’ Colonel G Isabel! Lord D 

bowing to you. Belle! Belle! Sir Harry B Isabel, 

child, with your eyes on the stage? Did you never see a 

play before? Novice ! Major P waiting to catch your 

eye this quarter of an hour; and now her eyes gone down 
to her play-bill ! Sir Harry, do take it from her. 

“ Were eyes so radiant only made to read? “ 

Lady Isabel appeared to suffer so exquisitely and so 
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naturally from this persecution, that Lord Colambre said 
to himself — 

“If this be acting, it is the best acting I ever saw. If 
this be art, it deserves to be nature.” 

And with this sentiment he did himself the honour of 
handing Lady Isabel to her carriage this night, and with 
this sentiment he awoke next morning; and by the time he 
had dressed and breakfasted he determined that it was im- 
possible all that he had seen could be acting. “No woman, 
no young woman, could have such art. Sir James Brooke 
had been unwarrantably severe ; he would go and tell him 
so.” 

But Sir James Brooke this day received orders for his 
regiment to march to quarters in a distant part of Ireland. 
His head was full of arms, and ammunition, and knapsacks, 
and billets, and routes; and there was no possibility, even 
in the present chivalrous disposition of our hero, to enter 
upon the defence of the Lady Isabel. Indeed, in the re- 
gret he felt for the approaching and unexpected departure 
of his friend, Lord Colambre forgot the fair lady. But just 
when Sir James had his foot in the stirrup, he stopped. 

“By the bye, my dear lord, I saw you at the play last 
night. You seemed to be much interested. Don’t think 
me impertinent, if I remind you of our conversation when 
we were riding home from Tusculum ; and if I warn you,” 
said he, mounting his horse, “to beware of counterfeits — 
for such are abroad.” Reining in his impatient steed, Sir 
James turned again and added, ''Deeds not words, is my 
motto. Remember, we can judge better by the conduct 
of people towards others than by their manner towards 
ourselves.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

O UR hero was quite convinced of the good sense of his 
friend’s last remark, that it is safer to judge of people 
by their conduct to others than by their manners to- 
wards ourselves ; but as yet, he felt scarcely any interest on 

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the subject of Lady Dashfort’s or Lady Isabel’s characters; 
however, he inquired and listened to all the evidence he 
could obtain respecting this mother and daughter. 

He heard terrible reports of the mischief they had done 
in families ; the extravagance into which they had led men ; 
the imprudence, to say no worse, into which they had be- 
trayed women. Matches broken off, reputations ruined, 
husbands alienated from their wives, and wives made jeal- 
ous of their husbands. But in some of these stories he 
discovered exaggeration so flagrant as to make him doubt 
the whole; in others, it could not be positively determined 
whether the mother or daughter had been the person most 
to blame. 

Lord Colambre always followed the charitable rule of 
believing only half what the world says, and here he thought 
it fair to believe which half he pleased. He further ob- 
served, that, though all joined in abusing these ladies in 
their absence, when present they seemed universally ad- 
mired. Though everybody cried “shame!” and “shock- 
ing ! ” yet everybody visited them. No parties so crowded 
as Lady Dashfort’s; no party deemed pleasant or fashion- 
able where Lady Dashfort or Lady Isabel was not. The 
bon-mots of the mother were everywhere repeated; the 
dress and air of the daughter everywhere imitated. Yet 
Lord Colambre could not help being surprised at their 
popularity in Dublin, because, independently of all moral 
objections, there were causes of a different sort, sufficient, 
he thought, to prevent Lady Dashfort from being liked by 
the* Irish ; indeed by any society. She in general affected 
to be ill-bred, and inattentive to the feelings and opinions 
of others; careless whom she offended by her wit or by 
her decided tone. There are some persons in so high a 
region of fashion, that they imagine themselves above the 
thunder of vulgar censure. Lady Dashfort felt herself in 
this exalted situation, and fancied she might “hear the in- 
nocuous thunder roll below.” Her rank was so high that 
none could dare to call her vulgar; what would have been 
gross in any one of meaner note, in her was freedom, or 
originality, or Lady Dashfort’s way. It was Lady Dash- 

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fort’s pleasure and pride to show her power in perverting 
the public taste. She often said to those English com- 
panions with whom she was intimate, “Now see what follies 
I can lead these fools into. Hear the nonsense I can make 
them repeat as wit.” Upon some occasion, one of her 
friends ventured to fear that something she had said was 
too strong. “Too strong, was it? Well, I like to be strong 
— woe be to the weak. ” On another occasion she was told 
that certain visitors had seen her ladyship yawning. 
“Yawn, did I? — glad of it — the yawn sent them away, or 
I should have snored; — rude, was I? they won’t complain. 
To say I was rude to them would be to say, that I did not 
think it worth my while to be otherwise. Barbarians ! are 
not we the civilised English, come to teach them manners 
and fashions? Whoever does not conform, and swear 
allegiance too, we shall keep out of the English pale.” 

Lady Dashfort forced her way, and she set the fashion : 
fashion, which converts the ugliest dress into what is beau- 
tiful and charming, governs the public mode in morals and 
in manners; and thus, when great talents and high rank 
combine, they can debase or elevate the public taste. 

With Lord Colambre she played more artfully ; she drew 
him out in defence of his beloved country, and gave him 
opportunities of appearing to advantage; this he could not 
help feeling, especially when the Lady Isabel was present. 
Lady Dashfort had dealt long enough with human nature 
to know, that to make any man pleased with her, she 
should begin by making him pleased with himself. 

Insensibly the antipathy that Lord Colambre had origin- 
ally felt to Lady Dashfort wore off; her faults, he began 
to think, were assumed ; he pardoned her defiance of good 
breeding, when he observed that she could, when she chose 
it, be most engagingly polite. It was not that she did not 
know what was right, but that she did not think it always 
for her interest to practise it. 

.The party opposed to Lady Dashfort affirmed that her 
wit depended merely on unexpectedness; a characteristic 
which may be applied to any impropriety of speech, man- 
ner, or conduct. In some of her ladyship’s repartees, 

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however, Lord Colambre now acknowledged there was 
more than unexpectedness ; there was real wit ; but it was 
of a sort utterly unfit for a woman, and he was sorry that 
Lady Isabel should hear it. In short, exceptionable as it 
was altogether. Lady Dashfort’s conversation had become 
entertaining to him ; and though he could never esteem or 
feel in the least interested about her, he began to allow that 
she could be agreeable. 

“Ay, I knew how it would be,” said she, when some of 
her friends told her this. “He began by detesting me, and 
did I not tell you that, if I thought it worth my while* to 
make him like me, he must, sooner or later? I delight in 
seeing people begin with me as they do with olives, making 
all manner of horrid faces and silly protestations that they 
will never touch an olive a^ain as long as they live ; but, 
after a little time, these very folk grow so desperately fond 
of olives, that there is no dessert without them. Isabel, 
child, you are in the sweet line — but sweets cloy. You 
never heard of anybody living on marmalade, did ye?” — 
Lady Isabel answered by a sweet smile. — “To do you jus- 
tice, you play Lydia Languish vastly well,” pursued the 
mother; “but Lydia, by herself, would soon tire; some- 
body must keep up the spirit and bustle, and carry on the 
plot of the piece ; and I am that somebody — as you shall 
see. Is not that our hero’s voice, which I hear on the 
stairs? ” 

It was Lord Colambre. His lordship had by this time 
become a constant visitor at Lady Dashfort’s. Not that 
he had forgotten, or that he meant to disregard his friend 
Sir James Brooke’s parting words. He promised himself 
faithfully, that if anything should occur to give him reason 
to suspect designs, such as those to which the warning 
pointed, he would be on his guard, and would prove his 
generalship by an able retreat. But to imagine attacks 
where none were attempted, to suspect ambuscades in the 
open country, would be ridiculous and cowardly. 

“No,” thought our hero; “Heaven forfend I should be 
such a coxcomb as to fancy every woman who speaks to 
me has designs upon my precious heart, or on my more 


no 


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precious estate! ” As he walked from his hotel to Lady 
Dashfort’s house, ingeniously wrong, he came to this con- 
clusion, just as he ascended the stairs, and just as her 
ladyship had settled her future plan of operations. 

After talking over the nothings of the day, and after 
having given two or three cuts at the society of Dublin, 
with two or three compliments to individuals, who, she 
knew, were favourites with his lordship, she suddenly 
turned to him — 

“My lord, I think you told me, or my own sagacity dis- 
covered, that you want to see something of Ireland, and 
that you don’t intend, like most travellers, to turn round, 
see nothing, and go home content.’’ 

Lord Colambre assured her ladyship that she had judged 
him rightly, for, that nothing would content him but see- 
ing all that was possible to be seen of his native country. 
It was for this special purpose he came to Ireland. 

“Ah! — well — very good purpose — can’t be better; but 
now, how to accomplish it. You know the Portuguese 
proverb says, ‘You go to hell for the good things you in- 
tend to do, and to heaven for those you do.’ Now let us 
see what you will do. Dublin, I suppose, you’ve seen 
enough of by this time; through and through — round and 
round — this makes me first giddy and then sick. Let me 
show you the country —not the face of it, but the body of 
it — the people. Not Castle this, or Newtown that, but 
their inhabitants. I know them ; I have the key, or the 
picklock to their minds. An Irishman is as different an 
animal on his guard, and off his guard, as a miss in school 
from a miss out of school. A fine country for game. I’ll 
show you ; and, if you are a good marksman, you may 
have plenty of shots ‘at folly as it flies.’ ’’ 

Lord Colambre smiled. “As to Isabel,’’ pursued her 
ladyship, “I shall put her in charge of Heathcock, who is 
going with us. She won’t thank me for that, but you will. 
Nay, no fibs, man; you know, I know, as who does not 
that has seen the world, that though a pretty woman is a 
mighty pretty thing, yet she is confoundedly in one’s way, 
when anything else is to be seen, heard— or understood.’’ 


II 


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Every objection anticipated and removed, and so far a 
prospect held out of attaining all the information he de- 
sired, with more than all the amusement he could have 
expected. Lord Colambre seemed much tempted to accept 
the invitation ; but he hesitated, because, as he said, her 
ladyship might be going to pay visits where he was not 
acquainted. 

“Bless you! don’t let that be a stumbling-block in the 
way of your tender conscience. I am going to Killpatricks- 
town, where you’ll be as welcome as light. You know 
them, they know you ; at least you shall have a proper 
letter of invitation from my Lord and my Lady Kiilpatrick, 
and all that. And as to the rest, you know a young man 
is always welcome everywhere, a young nobleman kindly 
welcome, — I won’t say such a young man, and such a 
young nobleman, for that might put you to your bows or 
your blushes — but nobilitas by itself, nobility is enough in 
all parties, in all families, where there are girls, and of 
course balls, as there are always at Killpatrickstown. Don’t 
be alarmed ; you shall not be forced to dance, or asked to 
marry. I’ll be your security. You shall be at full liberty ; 
and it is a house where you can do just what you will. 
Indeed, I go to no others. These Killpatricks are the 
best creatures in the world ; they think nothing good or 
grand enough for me. If I’d let them, they would lay 
down cloth of gold over their bogs for me to walk upon. — 
Good-hearted beings!” added Lady Dashfort, marking a 
cloud gathering on Lord Colambre’s countenance. “I 
laugh at them, because I love them. I could not love 
anything I might not laugh at — your lordship excepted. 
So you’ll come — that’s settled.” 

And so it was settled. Our hero went to Killpatricks- 
town. 

“Everything here sumptuous and unfinished, you see,” 
said Lady Dashfort to Lord Colambre, the day after their 
arrival. “All begun as if. the projectors thought they had 
the command of the mines of Peru, and ended as if the 
possessors had not sixpence ; des arrangemens provisatoires^ 
temporary expedients ; in plain English, makeshifts. 


II2 


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Luxuries, enough for an English prince of the blood; 
comforts, not enough for an English woman. And you 
may be sure that great repairs and alterations have gone 
on to fit this house for our reception, and for our English 
eyes!— Poor people! — English visitors, in this point of 
view, are horribly expensive to the Irish. Did you ever 
hear that, in the last century, or in the century before the 
last, to put my story far enough back, so that it shall not 
touch anybody living ; when a certain English nobleman. 

Lord Blank A , sent to let his Irish friend, Lord Blank 

B , know that he and all his train were coming over to 

pay him a visit ; the Irish nobleman. Blank B , know- 

ing the deplorable condition of his castle, sat down fairly 
to calculate whether it would cost him most to put the build- 
ing in good and sufficient repair, fit to receive these English 
visitors, or to burn it to the ground. He found the bal- 
ance to be in favour of burning, which was wisely accom- 
plished next day.^ Perhaps Killpatrick would have done 
well to follow this example. Resolve me which is worst, 
to be burnt out of house and home, or to be eaten out of 
house and home. In this house, above and below stairs, 
including first and second table, housekeeper's room, lady’s- 
maids' room, butler’s room, and gentleman’s, one hundred 
and four people sit down to dinner every day, as Petito 
informs me, beside kitchen boys, and what they call char- 
women — who never sit down, but who do not eat or waste 
the less for that ; and retainers and friends, friends to the 
fifth and sixth generation, who ‘must get their bit and 
their sup’; for, ‘sure, it’s only Biddy,’ they say,” con- 
tinued Lady Dashfort, imitating their Irish brogue. ‘‘ ‘And, 
‘sure, 'tis nothing at all, out of all his honour, my lord, 
has. How could he feel it ! ’ — Long life to him ! — He’s not 
that way: not a couple in all Ireland, and that’s saying a 
great dale, looks less after their own, nor is more off- 
handeder, or open-hearteder, or greater open-house-keep- 
ers,* my Lord and my Lady Killpatrick.’ Now there’s 
encouragement for a lord and a lady to ruin themselves.” 

Lady Dashfort imitated the Irish brogue in perfection; 

* Fact ! * Feel it : become sensible of it, know it. ^ Nor : than. 

8 II3 


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boasted that '‘she was mistress of fourteen different 
brogues, and had brogues for all occasions." By her mix- 
ture of mimicry, sarcasm, exaggeration, and truth, she 
succeeded continually in making Lord Colambre laugh at 
everything at which she wished to make him laugh; at 
every thing, but not every body; whenever she became 
personal, he became serious, or at least endeavoured to 
become serious; and if he could not instantly resume the 
command of his risible muscles, he reproached himself. 

"It is shameful to laugh at these people, indeed. Lady 
Dashfort, in their own house — these hospitable people, 
who are entertaining us." 

"Entertaining us! true, and if we are entertained, how 
can we help laughing? " 

All expostulation was thus turned off by a jest, as it was 
her pride to make Lord Colambre laugh in spite of his bet- 
ter feelings and principles. This he saw, and this seemed 
to him to be her sole object; but there he was mistaken. 
Off-handed as she pretended to be, none dealt more in the 
impromptu faith loisir ; and mentally short-sighted as she 
affected to be, none had more longanimity for their own 
interest. 

It was her settled purpose to make the Irish and Ireland 
ridiculous and contemptible to Lord Colambre; to disgust 
him with his native country; to make him abandon the 
wish of residing on his own estate. To confirm him an 
absentee was her object previously to her ultimate plan 
of marrying him to her daughter. Her daughter was poor, 
she would therefore be glad to get an Irish peer for her; 
but would be very sorry, she said, to see Isabel banished to 
Ireland ; and the young widow declared she could never 
bring herself to be buried alive in Clonbrony Castle. 

In addition to these considerations. Lady Dashfort re- 
ceived certain hints from Mrs. Petito, which worked all to 
the same point. 

"Why, yes, my lady; I heard a great deal about all that 
when I was at Lady Clonbrony ’s," said Petito, one day, as 
she was attending at her lady’s toilette, and encouraged to 
begin chattering. "And I own I was originally under the 

1 14 


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universal error, that my Lord Colambre was to be married 
to the great heiress, Miss Broadhurst ; but I have been 
converted and reformed on that score, and am at present 
quite in another way and style of thinking.” 

Petito paused, in hopes that her lady would ask, what 
was her present way of thinking? But Lady Dashfort, 
certain that she would tell her without being asked, did 
not take the trouble to speak, particularly as she did not 
choose to appear violently interested on the subject. — 
“My present way of thinking,” resumed Petito, “is in 
consequence of my having, with my own eyes and ears, wit- 
nessed and overheard his lordship’s behaviour and words, 
the morning he was coming away from Lunnun for Ireland ; 
when he was morally certain nobody was up, nor over- 
hearing, nor overseeing him, there did I notice him, my 
lady, stopping in the antechamber, ejaculating over one of 
Miss Nugent’s gloves, which he had picked up. ‘Limer- 
ick ! ’ said he, quite loud to himself ; for it was a Limerick 
glove, my lady, — ‘Limerick! — dear Ireland! she loves you 
as well as I do ! ’ — or words to that effect ; and then a sigh, 
and downstairs and off. So, thinks I, now the cat’s out of 
the bag. And I wouldn’t give much myself for Miss 
Broadhurst’s chance of that young lord, with all her bank 
stock, scrip, and omnum. Now, I see how the land lies, 
and I’m sorry for it; for she’s no fortin; and she’s so 
proud, she never said a hint to me of the matter; but my 
Lord Colambre is a sweet gentleman; and ” 

“Petito! don’t run on so; you must not meddle with 
what you don’t understand : the Miss Killpatricks, to be 
sure, are sweet girls, particularly the youngest.” — Her 
ladyship’s toilette was finished ; and she left Petito to go 
down to my Lady Killpatrick’s woman, to tell, as a very 
great secret, the schemes that were in contemplation among 
the higher powers, in favour of the youngest of the Miss 
Killpatricks. 

“So Ireland is at the bottom of his heart, is it?” re- 
peated Lady Dashfort to herself ; “it shall not be long so.” 
From this time forward, not a day, scarcely an hour passed, 
but her ladyship did or said something to depreciate the 

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country, or its inhabitants, in our hero's estimation. With 
treacherous ability, she knew and followed all the arts of 
misrepresentation ; all those injurious arts which his friend. 
Sir James Brooke, had, with such honest indignation, re- 
probated. She knew how, not only to seize the ridiculous 
points, to make the most respectable people ridiculous, but 
she knew how to select the worst instances, the worst ex- 
ceptions ; and to produce them as examples, as precedents, 
from which to condemn whole classes, and establish general 
false conclusions respecting a nation. • 

In the neighbourhood of Killpatrickstown, Lady Dash- 
fort said, there were several squireens, or little squires; a 
race of men who have succeeded to the buckeens, described 
by Young and Crumpe. Squireens are persons who, with 
good long leases, or valuable farms, possess incomes 
from three to eight hundred a year; who keep a pack of 
hounds; take out a commission of the peace, sometimes 
before they can spell (as her ladyship said), and almost 
always before they know anything of law or justice ! Busy 
and loud about small matters ; jobbers at assizes ; combin- 
ing with one another, and trying upon every occasion, 
public or private, to push themselves forward, to the annoy- 
ance of their superiors, and the terror of those below them. 

In the usual course of things, these men are not often to 
be found in the society of gentry ; except, perhaps, among 
those gentlemen or noblemen who like to see hangers-on 
at their tables ; or who find it for their convenience to have 
underling magistrates, to protect their favourites, or to 
propose and carry for them on grand juries. At elec- 
tion times, however, these persons rise into sudden import- 
ance with all who have views upon the county. Lady 
Dashfort hinted to Lord Killpatrick, that her private letters 
from England spoke of an approaching dissolution of Par- 
liament ; she knew that, upon this hint, a round of invita- 
tions would be sent to the squireens ; and she was morally 
certain that they would be more disagreeable to Lord 
Colambre, and give him a worse idea of the country, than 
any other people who could be produced. Day after day 
some of these personages made their appearance ; and Lady 

Ii6 


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Dashfort took care to draw them out upon the subjects on 
which she knew that they would show the most self-suffi- 
cient ignorance, and the most illiberal spirit. This suc- 
ceeded beyond her most sanguine expectations. “Lord 
Colambre ! how I pity you, for being compelled to these 
permanent sittings after dinner! “ said Lady Isabel to him 
one night, when he came late to the ladies from the dining- 
room. “Lord Killpatrick insisted upon my staying to 
help him to push about that never-ending, still-beginning 
electioneering bottle,” said Lord Colambre. “Oh! if that 
were all ; if these gentlemen would only drink ; — but their 
conversation ! I don’t wonder my mother dreads returning 
to Clonbrony Castle, if my father must have such company 
as this. But, surely, it cannot be necessary.” 

“Oh, indispensable! positively indispensable!” cried 
Lady Dashfort; “no living in Ireland without it. You 
know, in every country in the world, you must live with 
the people of the country, or be torn to pieces; for my 
part, I should prefer being torn to pieces.” 

Lady Dashfort and Lady Isabel knew how to take ad- 
vantage of the contrast between their own conversation, 
and that of the persons by whom Lord Colambre was so 
justly disgusted ; they happily relieved his fatigue with wit, 
satire, poetry, and sentiment ; so that he every day became 
more exclusively fond of their company; for Lady Kill- 
patrick and the Miss Killpatricks were mere commonplace 
people. In the mornings, he rode or walked with Lady 
Dashfort and Lady Isabel : Lady Dashfort, by way of ful- 
filling her promise of showing him the people, used fre- 
quently to take him into the cabins, and talk to their 
inhabitants. Lord and Lady Killpatrick, who had lived 
always for the fashionable world, had taken little pains to 
improve the condition of their tenants ; the few attempts 
they had made were injudicious. They had built orna- 
mented, picturesque cottages, within view of their demesne ; 
and favourite followers of the family, people with half a 
century’s habit of indolence and dirt, were promoted to 
these fine dwellings. The consequences were such as 
Lady Dashfort delighted to point out; everything let to 

117 


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go to ruin for the want of a moment’s care, or pulled to 
pieces for the sake of the most trifling surreptitious profit ; 
the people most assisted always appearing proportionally 
wretched and discontented. No one could, with more 
ease and more knowledge of her ground, than Lady Dash- 
fort, do the dishonour of a country. In every cabin that 
she entered, by the first glance of her eye at the head, 
kerchiefed in no comely guise, or by the drawn-down corners 
of the mouth, or by the bit of a broken pipe, which in Ire- 
land never characterises stout labour, or by the first sound 
of the voice, the drawling accent on “your honour,’’ or, 
“my lady,’’ she could distinguish the proper objects of her 
charitable designs, that is to say, those of the old unedu- 
cated race, whom no one can help, because they will never 
help themselves. To these she constantly addressed her^ 
self, making them give, in all their despairing tones, a 
history of their complaints and grievances; then asking 
them questions, aptly contrived to expose their habits of 
self-contradiction, their servility and flattery one moment, 
and their litigious and encroaching spirit the next: thus 
giving Lord Colambre the most unfavourable idea of the 
disposition and character of the lower class of the Irish 
people. 

Lady Isabel the while stood by, with the most amiable 
air of pity, with expressions of the finest moral sensi- 
bility, softening all her mother said, finding ever some 
excuse for the poor creatures, and following with angelic 
sweetness to heal the wounds her mother inflicted. 

When Lady Dashfort thought she had sufficiently worked 
upon Lord Colambre’s mind to weaken his enthusiasm for 
his native country, and when Lady Isabel had, by the ap- 
pearance of every virtue, added to a delicate preference, if 
not partiality, for our hero, ingratiated herself into his good 
opinion and obtained an interest in his mind, the wily 
mother ventured an attack of a more decisive nature; and 
so contrived it was, that, if it failed, it should appear to 
have been made without design to injure, and in total 
ignorance. 

One day. Lady Dashfort, who in fact was not proud of 
ii8 


THE ABSENTEE 


her family, though she pretended to be so, had herself pre- 
vailed on, though with much difficulty, by Lady Kill- 
patrick, to do the very thing she wanted to do, to show 
her genealogy, which had been beautifully blazoned, and 
which was to be produced as evidence in the lawsuit that 
brought her to Ireland. Lord Colambre stood politely 
looking on and listening, while her ladyship explained the 
splendid inter-marriages of her family, pointing to each 
medallion that was filled gloriously with noble, and even 
with royal names, till at last she stopped short, and cover- 
ing one medallion with her finger, she said — 

“Pass over that, dear Lady Killpatrick. ' You are not to 
see that. Lord Colambre — that’s a little blot in our scut- 
cheon. You know, Isabel, we never talk of that prudent 
match of great-uncle John’s; what could he expect by 
marrying into that family, where you know all the men 
were not sans peur^ and none of the women sans reprocheP' 
‘ ‘ Oh mamma ! ’ ’ cried Lady Isabel, ‘ ‘ not one exception ? ’ ’ 
“Not one, Isabel,” persisted Lady Dashfort; “there was 

Lady , and the other sister, that married the man with 

the long nose; and the daughter again, of whom they con- 
trived to make an honest woman, by getting her married in 
time to a blue-ribband, and who contrived to get herself 
into Doctors’ Commons the very next year.” 

“Well, dear mamma, that is enough, and too much. 
Oh! pray don’t go on,” cried Lady Isabel, who had ap- 
peared very much distressed during her mother’s speech. 
“You don’t know what you are saying; indeed, ma’am, 
you don’t.” 

“Very likely, child; but that compliment I can return 
to you on the spot, and with interest ; for you seem to me, 
at this instant, not to know either what you are saying or 
what you are doing. Come, come, explain.” 

“Oh no, ma’am — Pray say so no more; I will explain 
myself another time.” 

“Nay, there you are wrong, Isabel; in point of good- 
breeding, anything is better than hints and mystery. 
Since I have been so unlucky as to touch upon the sub- 
ject, better go through with it, and, with all the boldness 

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of innocence, ask the question, Are you, my Lord Colam- 
bre, or are you not, related or connected with any of the 
St. Omars?” 

“Not that I know of,” said Lord Colambre; “but I 
really am so bad a genealogist, that I cannot answer 
positively.” 

“Then I must put the substance of my question into a 
new form. Have you, or have you not, a cousin of the 
name of Nugent? ” 

“Miss Nugent! — Grace Nugent! — Yes,” said Lord 
Colambre, with as much firmness of voice as he could com- 
mand, and with as little change of countenance as possible ; 
but, as the question came upon him so unexpectedly, it 
was not in his power to answer with an air of absolute 
indifference and composure. 

“And her mother was ” said Lady Dashfort. 

“My aunt, by marriage; her maiden name was Rey- 
nolds, I think. But she died v/hen I was quite a child. 
I know very little about her. I never saw her in my life ; 
but I am certain she was a Reynolds.” 

“Oh, my dear lord,” continued Lady Dashfort; “I am 
perfectly aware that she did take and bear the name of 
Reynolds ; but that was not her maiden name — her maiden 

name was ; but perhaps it is a family secret that has 

been kept, for some good reason, from you, and from the 
poor girl herself; the maiden name was St. Omar, depend 
upon it. Nay, I would not have told this to you, my lord, 
if I could have conceived that it would affect you so vio- 
lently,” pursued Lady Dashfort, in a tone of raillery; 
“you see you are no worse off than we are. We have an 
intermarriage with the St. Omars. I did not think you 
would be so much shocked at a discovery, which proves 
that our family and yours have some little connexion.” 

Lord Colambre endeavoured to answer, and mechanically 
said something about, ‘ ‘ happy to have the honour. ’ ' Lady 
Dashfort, truly happy to see that her blow had hit the 
mark so well, turned from his lordship without seeming to 
observe how seriously he was affected ; and Lady Isabel 
sighed, and looked with compassion on Lord Colambre, 


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THE ABSENTEE 


and then reproachfully at her mother. But Lord Colam- 
bre heeded not her looks, and heard not her sighs; he 
heard nothing, saw nothing, though his eyes were intently 
fixed on the genealogy, on which Lady Dashfort was still 
descanting to Lady Killpatrick. He took the first oppor- 
tunity he could of quitting the room, and went out to take 
a solitary walk. 

“There he is, departed, but not in peace, to reflect upon 
what has been said,” whispered Lady Dashfort to her 
daughter. “I hope it will do him a vast deal of good.” 

“None of the women sans reproche ! None! — without 
one exception,” said Lord Colambre to himself; “and 
Grace Nugent’s mother a St. Omar! — Is it possible? Lady 
Dashfort seems certain. She could not assert a positive 
falsehood — no motive. She does not know that Miss Nu- 
gent is the person to whom I am attached — she spoke at 
random. And I have heard it first from a stranger — not 
from my mother. Why was it kept secret from me? Now 
I understand the reason why my mother evidently never 
wished that I should think of Miss Nugent — why she 
always spoke so vehemently against the marriages of rela- 
tions, of cousins. Why not tell me the truth? It would 
have had the strongest effect, had she known my mind.” 

Lord Colambre had the greatest dread of marrying any 
woman whose mother had conducted herself ill. His 
reason, his prejudices, his pride, his delicacy, and even his 
limited experience, were all against it. All his hopes, his 
plans of future happiness, were shaken to their very founda- 
tion ; he felt as if he had received a blow that stunned his 
mind, and from which he could not recover his faculties. 
The whole of that day he was like one in a dream. At 
night the painful idea continually recurred to him; and 
whenever he was falling asleep, the sound of Lady Dash- 
fort’s voice returned upon his ear, saying the words, 
“What could he expect when he married one of the St. 
Omars? None of the women sans reproche P' 

, In the morning he rose early ; and the first thing he did 
was to write a letter to his mother, requesting (unless there 
was some important reason for her declining to answer the 

I2I 


THE ABSENTEE 


question) that she would immediately relieve his mind from 
a great uneasiness (he altered the word four times, but at 
last left it uneasiness). He stated what he had heard, and 
besought his mother to tell him the whole truth, without 
reserve. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

O NE morning Lady Dashfort had formed an ingenious 
scheme for leaving Lady Isabel and Lord Colambre 
tete-a-tite ; but the sudden entrance of Heathcock 
disconcerted her intentions. He came to beg Lady Dash- 
fort’s interest with Count O’Halloran, for permission to 
hunt and shoot on his grounds. — “Not for myself, 'pon 
honour, but for two officers who are quartered at the next 
town here, who will indubitably hang or drown themselves 
if they are debarred from sporting.’’ 

“Who is this Count O’Halloran?’’ said Lord Colambre. 
Miss White, Lady Killpatrick’s companion, said “he was 
a great oddity ’’ ; Lady Dashfort, “that he was singular ’’ ; 
and the clergyman of the parish, who was at breakfast, 
declared “that he was a man of uncommon knowledge, 
merit, and politeness.’’ 

“All I know of him,’’ said Heathcock, “is, that he is a 
great sportsman, with a long queue, a gold-laced hat, and 
long skirts to a laced waistcoat.’’ Lord Colambre ex- 
pressed a wish to see this extraordinary personage; and 
Lady Dashfort, to cover her former design, and, perhaps, 
thinking absence might be as effectual as too much propin- 
quity, immediately offered to call upon the officers in their 
way, and carry them with Heathcock and Lord Colambre 
to Halloran Castle. 

Lady Isabel retired with much mortification, but with 
becoming grace; and Captain Benson and Captain William- 
son were taken to the count’s. Captain Benson, who was 
a famous whip^ took his seat on the box of the barouche, 
and the rest of the party had the pleasure of her ladyship’s 
conversation for three or four miles: of her ladyship’s con- 
versation — for Lord Colambre’s thoughts were far distant; 


122 


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Captain Williamson had not anything to say ; and Heath- 
cock nothing but, “Eh! re’lly now! — ’pon honour!” 

They arrived at Halloran Castle — a fine old building, 
part of it in ruins, and part repaired with great judgment 
and taste. When the carriage stopped, a respectable- 
looking man-servant appeared on the steps, at the open 
hall-door. 

Count O’ Halloran was out a-hunting; but his servant 
said “that he would be at home immediately, if Lady 
Dashfort and the gentlemen would be pleased to walk in.” 

On one side of the lofty and spacious hall stood the 
skeleton of an elk ; on the other side, the perfect skeleton 
of a moose-deer, which, as the servant said, his master had 
made out, with great care, from the different bones of 
many of this curious species of deer, found in the lakes in 
the neighbourhood. The brace of officers witnessed their 
wonder with sundry strange oaths and exclamations. — 
“Eh! ’pon honour — re’lly now!” said Heathcock; and, 
too genteel to wonder at or admire anything in the creation, 
dragged out his watch with some difficulty, saying, “I 
wonder now whether they are likely to think of giving us 
anything to eat in this place?” And, turning his back 
upon the moose-deer, he straight walked out again upon 
the steps, called to his groom, and began to make some 
inquiry about his led horse. Lord Colambre surveyed the 
prodigious skeletons with rational curiosity, and with that 
sense of awe and admiration, by which a superior mind is 
always struck on beholding any of the great works of 
Providence. 

“Come, my dear lord! ” said Lady Dashfort; “with our 
sublime sensations, we are keeping my old friend, Mr. 
Alick Brady, this venerable person, waiting, to show us 
into the reception-room.” 

The servant bowed respectfully — more respectfully than 
servants of modern date. 

“My lady, the reception-room has been lately painted — 
the smell of paint may be disagreeable ; with your leave, I 
will take the liberty of showing you into my master’s 
study.” 


123 


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He opened the door, went in before her, and stood hold- 
ing up his finger, as if making a signal of silence to some 
one within. Her ladyship entered, and found herself in 
the midst of an odd assembly : an eagle, a goat, a dog, an 
otter, several gold and silver fish in a glass globe, and a 
white mouse in a cage. The eagle, quick of eye but quiet 
of demeanour, was perched upon his stand ; the otter lay 
under the table, perfectly harmless; the Angora goat, a 
beautiful and remarkably little creature of its kind, with 
long, curling, silky hair, was walking about the room with 
the air of a beauty and a favourite ; the dog, a tall Irish 
greyhound — one of the few of that fine race which is now 
almost extinct — had been given to Count O’Halloran by 
an Irish nobleman, a relation of Lady Dashfort’s. This 
dog, who had formerly known her ladyship, looked at her 
with ears erect, recognised her, and went to meet her the 
moment she entered. The servant answered for the peace- 
able behaviour of all the rest of the company of animals, 
and retired. Lady Dashfort began to feed the eagle from 
a silver plate on his stand ; Lord Colambre examined the 
inscription on his collar; the other men stood in amaze. 
Heathcock, who came in last, astonished out of his con- 
stant “Eh! re’lly now! “ the moment he put himself in at 
the door, exclaimed, “Zounds! what’s all this live lum- 
ber?’’ and he stumbled over the goat, who was at that 
moment crossing the way. The colonel’s spur caught in 
the goat’s curly beard; the colonel shook his foot, and 
entangled the spur worse and worse ; the goat struggled 
and butted ; the colonel skated forward on the polished 
oak floor, balancing himself with outstretched arms. 

The indignant eagle screamed, and, passing by, perched 
on Heathcock’s shoulders. Too well-bred to have recourse 
to the terrors of his beak, he scrupled not to scream, and 
flap his wings about the colonel’s ears. Lady Dashfort, 
the while, threw herself back in her chair, laughing, and 
begging Heathcock’s pardon. “Oh, take care of the dog, 
my dear colonel! ’’ cried she; “for this kind of dog seizes 
his enemy by the back, and shakes him to death.’’ The 
officers, holding their sides, laughed, and begged — no par- 

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don ; while Lord Colambre, the only person who was not 
absolutely incapacitated, tried to disentangle the spur, and 
to liberate the colonel from the goat, and the goat from 
the colonel; an attempt in which he at last succeeded, at 
the expense of a considerable portion of the goat’s beard. 
The eagle, however, still kept his place; and, yet mindful 
of the wrongs of his insulted friend the goat, had stretched 
his wings to give another buffet. Count O’Halloran en- 
tered; and the bird, quitting his prey, flew down to greet 
his master. The count was a fine old military-looking 
gentleman, fresh from the chace: his hunting accoutre- 
ments hanging carelessly about him, he advanced, unem- 
barrassed, to the lady ; and received his other guests with 
a mixture of military ease and gentleman-like dignity. 

Without adverting to the awkward and ridiculous situa- 
tion in which he had found poor Heathcock, he apologised 
in general for his troublesome favourites. “For one of 
them,’’ said he, patting the head of the dog, which lay 
quiet at Lady Dashfort’s feet, “I see I have no need to 
apologise ; he is where he ought to be. Poor fellow ! he 
has never lost his taste for the good company to which he 
was early accustomed. As to the rest,’’ said he, turning 
to Lady Dashfort, “a mouse, a bird, and a fish, are, you 
know, tribute from earth, air, and water, for my con- 
queror ” 

“But from no barbarous Scythian! “ said Lord Colam- 
bre, smiling. The count looked at Lord Colambre, as at 
a person worthy his attention ; but his first care was to 
keep the peace between his loving subjects and his foreign 
visitors. It was difficult to dislodge the old settlers, to 
make room for the newcomers; but he adjusted these 
things with admirable facility; and, with a master’s hand 
and master’s eye, compelled each favourite to retreat into 
the back settlements. With becoming attention, he stroked 
and kept quiet old Victory, his eagle, who eyed Colonel 
Heathcock still, as if he did not like him; and whom the 
colonel eyed, as if he wished his neck fairly wrung off. 
The little goat had nestled himself close up to his liberator, 
Lord Colambre, and lay perfectly quiet, with his eyes 

125 


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closed, going very wisely to sleep, and submitting philo- 
sophically to the loss of one half of his beard. Conversation 
now commenced, and was carried on by Count O’Halloran 
with much ability and spirit, and with such quickness of 
discrimination and delicacy of taste, as quite surprised and 
delighted our hero. To the lady, the count’s attention 
was first directed : he listened to her as she spoke, bending 
with an air of deference and devotion. She made her 
request for permission for Major Benson and Captain Wil- 
liamson to hunt and shoot in his grounds ; this was instantly 
granted. 

“Her ladyship’s requests were to him commands,” the 
count said. “His gamekeeper should be instructed to give 
the gentlemen, her friends, every liberty, and all possible 
assistance.” 

Then turning to the officers, he said he had just heard 
that several regiments of English militia had lately landed 
in Ireland ; that one regiment was arrived at Killpatricks- 
town. He rejoiced in the advantages Ireland, and he hoped 
he might be permitted to add, England, would probably 
derive from the exchange of the militia of both countries; 
habits would be improved, ideas enlarged. The two coun- 
tries have the same interest; and, from the inhabitants 
discovering more of each other’s good qualities, and inter- 
changing little good offices in common life, their esteem 
and affection for each other would increase, and rest upon 
the firm basis of mutual utility.” 

To all this Major Benson and Captain Williamson made 
no reply. 

“The major looks so like a stuffed man of straw,” whis. 
pered Lady Dashfort to Lord Colambre; “and the captain 
so like the knave of clubs, putting forth one manly leg.” 

Count O’Halloran now turned the conversation to field 
sports, and then the captain and major opened at once. 

“Pray now, sir?” said the major, “you fox-hunt in this 
country, I suppose; and now do you manage the thing 
here as we do? Over night, you know, before the hunt, 
when the fox is out, stopping up the earths of the cover we 
mean to draw, and all the rest for four miles round. Next 

12 $ 


THE ABSENTEE 


morning we assemble at the cover’s side, and the huntsman 
throws in the hounds. The gossip here is no small part of 
the entertainment ; but as soon as we hear the hounds give 
tongue ” 

“The favourite hounds,” interposed Williamson. 

“The favourite hounds, to be sure,” continued Benson; 
“there is a dead silence, till pug is well out of cover, and 
the whole pack well in ; then cheer the hounds with tally- 
ho ! till your lungs crack. Away he goes in gallant style, 
and the whole field is hard up, till pug takes a stiff country ; 
then they who haven’t pluck lag, see no more of him, and, 
with a fine blazing scent, there are but few of us in at the 
death.” 

“Well, we are fairly in at the death, I hope,” said Lady 
Dashfort; “I was thrown out sadly at one time in the 
chace.” 

Lord Colambre, with the count’s permission, took up a 
book in which the count’s pencil lay, Pasley on the Military 
Policy of Great Britain ; it was marked with many notes of 
admiration, and with hands pointing to remarkable passages. 

“That is a book that leaves a strong impression on the 
mind,” said the count. 

Lord Colambre read one of the marked passages, begin- 
ning with, “All that distinguishes a soldier in outward 

appearance from a citizen is so trifling ” but at this 

instant our hero’s attention was distracted by seeing in a 
black-letter book this title of a chapter : 

“Burial-place of the Nugents.” 

“Pray now, sir,” said Captain Williamson, “if I don’t 
interrupt yot^, as you are such a famous fox-hunter, 
maybe, you may be a fisherman too*; and now in Ireland 
do you, Mr. ” . 

A smart pinch on his elbow from his major, who stood 
behind him, stopped the captain short, as he pronounced 
the word Mr. Like all awkward people, he turned directly 
to ask, by his looks, what was the matter? 

The major took advantage of his discomfiture, and, step- 
ping before him, determined to have the fishing to himself, 
and went on with — 


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“Count O’Halloran, I presume you understand fishing 
too, as well as hunting? “ 

The count bowed: “I do not presume to say that, sir.” 

“But pray, count, in this country, do you arm your 
hook this ways? Give me leave ” ; taking the whip from 
Williamson’s reluctant hand — “this ways, laying the outer- 
most part of your feather this fashion next to your hook, 
and the point next to your shank, this wise, and that wise ; 
and then, sir, — count, you take the hackle of a cock’s 
neck ” 

“A plover’s topping’s better,” said Williamson. 

“And work your gold and silver thread,” pursued Ben- 
son, “up to your wings, and when your head’s made, you 
fasten all.” 

“But you never showed how your head’s made,” inter- 
rupted Williamson. 

“The gentleman knows how a head’s made; any man 
can make a head, I suppose; so, sir, you fasten all.” 

“You’ll never get your head fast on that way, while the 
world stands,” cried Williamson. 

“Fast enough for all purposes; I’ll bet you a rump and 
dozen, captain ; and then, sir, — count, you divide your 
wings with a needle.” 

“A pin’s point will do,” said Williamson. 

The count, to reconcile matters, produced from an In- 
dian cabinet, which he had opened for the lady’s inspection, 
a little basket containing a variety of artificial flies of curious 
construction, which, as he spread them on the table, made 
Williamson’s and Benson’s eyes almost sparkle with delight. 
There was the dun-fly, for the month of March ; and the 
stone-fly, much in vbgue for April; and the ruddy-fly, of 
red wool, black silk, and red capon’s feathers. 

Lord Colambre, whose head was in the burial-place of 
the Nugents, wished them all at the bottom of the sea. 

“And the green-fly, and the moorish-fly ! ” cried Benson, 
snatching them up with transport; “and, chief, the sad- 
yellow-fly, in which the fish delight in June; the sad-yellow- 
fly, made with the buzzard’s wings, bound with black 
braked hemp, and the shell-fly, for the middle of July, 

128 


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made of greenish wool, wrapped about with the herle of a 
peacock’s tail, famous for creating excellent sport.” All 
these and more were spread upon the table before the 
sportsmen’s wondering eyes. 

“Capital flies! capital, faith!” cried Williamson. 

“Treasures, faith, real treasures, by G — ! ” cried Benson. 

“Eh! ’pon honour! re’lly now,” were the first words 
which Heathcock had uttered since his battle with the goat. 

“My dear Heathcock, are you alive still?” said Lady 
Dashfort; “I had really forgotten your existence.” 

So had Count O’Halloran, but he did not say so. 

“Your ladyship has the advantage of me there,” said 
Heathcock, stretching himself; “I wish I could forget my 
existence, for, in my mind, existence is a horrible bore^ 

“I thought you was a sportsman,” said Williamson. 

“Well, sir?” 

“And a fisherman?” 

“Well, sir?” 

“Why, look you there, sir,” pointing to the flies, “and 
tell a body life’s a bore.” 

“One can’t always fish, or shoot, I apprehend, sir,” said 
Heathcock. 

“Not always — but sometimes,” said Williamson, laugh- 
ing; “for I suspect shrewdly you’ve forgot some of your 
sporting in Bond Street.” 

“Eh! ’pon honour! re’lly now!” said the colonel, re- 
treating again to his safe entrenchment of affectation, from 
which he never could venture without imminent danger. 

“ ’Pon honour,” cried Lady Dashfort, “I can swear for 
Heathcock, that I have eaten excellent hares and ducks 
of his shooting, which, to my knowledge,” added she, in 
a loud whisper, “he bought in the market.” 

'' Emptum aprum ! ” said Lord Colambre to the count, 
without danger of being understood by those whom it 
concerned. 

The count smiled a second time; but politely turning 
the attention of the company from the unfortunate colonel 
by addressing himself to the laughing sportsmen, “Gentle- 
men, you seem to value these,” said he, sweeping the 

129 


9 


THE ABSENTEE 


artificial flies from the table into the little basket from 
which they had been taken ; “would you do me the honour 
to accept of them? They are all of my own making, and 
consequently of Irish manufacture.” Then, ringing the 
bell, he asked Lady Dashfort’s permission to have the 
basket put into her carriage. 

Benson and Williamson followed the servant, to prevent 
them from being tossed into the boot. Heathcock stood 
still in the middle of the room taking snuff. 

Count O’Halloran turned from him to Lord Colambre, 
who had just got happily to the burial-place of the Nugents, 
when Lady Dashfort, coming between them, and spying 
the title of the chapter, exclaimed — 

“What have you there? — Antiquities! my delight! — but 
I never look at engravings when I can see realities.” 

Lord Colambre ‘was then compelled to follow, as she led 
the way into the hall, where the count took down golden 
ornaments, and brass-headed spears, and jointed horns of 
curious workmanship, that had been found on his estate; 
and he told of spermaceti wrapped in carpets, and he 
showed small urns, enclosing ashes; and from among these 
urns he selected one, which he put into the hands of Lord 
Colambre, telling him that it had been lately found in an 
old abbey-ground in his neighbourhood, which had been 
the burial-place of some of the Nugent family. 

“I was just looking at the account of it, in the book 
which you saw open. on my table. — And as you seem to 
take an interest in that family, my lord, perhaps,” said the 
count, “you may think this urn worth your acceptance.” 

Lord Colambre said, “It would be highly valuable to 
him — as the Nugents were his near relations.” 

Lady Dashfort little expected this blow; she, however, 
carried him off to the moose-deer, and from moose-deer to 
round-towers, to various architectural antiquities, and to 
the real and fabulous history of Ireland, on all which the 
count spoke with learning and enthusiasm. But now, to 
Colonel Heathcock’s great joy and relief, a handsome col- 
lation appeared in the dining-room, of which Alick opened 
the folding-doors. 


130 


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Count, you have made an excellent house of your 
castle,” said Lady Dashfort. 

“It will be, when it is finished,” said the count. “I 
am afraid,” added he, smiling, “I live like many other 
Irish gentlemen, who never are, but are always to be, blest 
with a good house. I began on too large a scale, and can 
never hope to live to finish it.” 

’Pon honour! here’s a good thing, which I hope we 
shall live to finish,” said Heathcock, sitting down before 
the collation ; and heartily did he eat of grouse pie, and of 
Irish ortolans, which, as Lady Dashfort observed, “afforded 
him indemnity for the past, and security for the future.” 

“Eh! re’lly now! your Irish ortolans are famous good 
eating,” said Heathcock. 

“Worth being quartered in Ireland, faith! to taste ’em,’* 
said Benson. 

The count recommended to Lady Dashfort some of 
“that delicate sweetmeat, the Irish plum.” 

“Bless me, sir — count!” cried Williamson, “it’s by far 
the best thing of the kind I ever tasted in all my life : where 
could you get this? ” 

“In Dublin, at my dear Mrs. Godey’s; where only^ in 
his Majesty’s dominions, it is to be had,” said the count. 
The whole dish vanished in a few seconds. — “ ’Pon honour ! 
I do believe this is the thing the queen’s so fond of,” said 
Heathcock. 

Then heartily did he drink of the count’s excellent 
Hungarian wines; and, by the common bond of sympathy 
between those who have no other tastes but eating and 
drinking, the colonel, the major, and the captain were now 
all the best companions possible for one another. 

Whilst “they prolonged the rich repast,” Lady Dashfort 
and Lord Colambre went to the window to admire the 
prospect; Lady Dashfort asked the count the name of 
some distant hill. 

“Ah! ” said the count, “that hill was once covered with 
fine wood; but it was all cut down two years ago.” 

“Who could have been so cruel? ” said her ladyship. 

“I forget the present proprietor’s name,” said the count; 

131 


THE ABSENTEE 


“but he is one of those who, according to the clause of 
distress in their leases, lead, drive, and carry away, but 
never enter their lands; one of those enemies to Ireland — 
those cruel absentees!” Lady Dashfort looked through 
her glass at the mountain ; — Lord Colambre sighed, and, 
endeavouring to pass it off with a smile, said frankly to the 
count — 

“You are not aware, I am sure, count, that you are 
speaking to the son of an Irish absentee family. — Nay, do 
not be shocked, my dear sir; I tell you only, because 
I thought it fair to do so; but let me assure you, that 
nothing you could say on that subject could hurt me per- 
sonally, because I feel that I am not, that I never can be, 
an enemy to Ireland. An absentee, voluntarily, I never 
yet have been ; and as to the future, I declare “ 

“I declare you know nothing of the future,” interrupted 
Lady Dashfort, in a half-peremptory, half-playful tone — 
“you know nothing; make no rash vows, and you will 
break none.” 

The undaunted assurance of Lady Dashfort’s genius for 
intrigue gave her an air of frank impudence, which pre- 
vented Lord Colambre from suspecting that more was 
meant than met the ear. The count and he took leave of 
one another with mutual regard; and Lady Dashfort re- 
joiced to have got our hero out of Halloran Castle. 


CHAPTER IX. 

L ord colambre had waited with great impatience 
for an answer to the letter of inquiry which he had 
written about Miss Nugent's mother. A letter from 
Lady Clonbrony arrived; he opened it with the greatest 
eagerness — passed over 

Rheumatism — warm weather — warm bath — Buxton 
balls — Miss Broadhurst — your friend. Sir Arthur Berryl, 
very assiduous! ” The name of Gra'ce Nugent he found 
at last, and read as follows : 


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Her mother’s maiden name was Sf. Omar j and there was a 
faux pas^ certainly. She was, I am told (for it was before my 
time), educated at a convent abroad; and there was an affair 
with a Captain Reynolds, a young officer, which her friends were 
obliged to hush up. She brought an infant to England with 
her, and took the name of Reynolds — but none of that family 
would acknowledge her; and she lived in great obscurity, till 
your uncle Nugent saw, fell in love with her, and (knowing her 
whole history) married her. He adopted the child, gave her 
Kis name, and, after some years, the whole story was forgotten. 
Nothing could be more disadvantageous to Grace than to have it 
revived: this is the reason we kept it secret. 

Lord Colambre tore the letter to bits. 

From the perturbation which Lady Dashfort saw in his 
countenance, she guessed the nature of the letter which he 
had been reading, and for the arrival of which he had been 
so impatient. 

“It has worked!” said she to herself. ''Pour le coup 
Philippe je te liens ! * ’ 

Lord Colambre appeared this day more sensible, than he 
had ever yet seemed, to the charms of the fair Isabel. 

“Many a tennis-ball, and many a heart is caught at the 
rebound,” said Lady Dashfort. “Isabel! now is your 
time !” 

And so it was — or so, perhaps, it would have been, but 
for a circumstance which her ladyship, with all her genius 
for intrigue, had never taken into her consideration. 
Count O’Halloran came to return the visit which had been 
paid to him ; and, in the course of conversation, he spoke 
of the officers who had been introduced to him, and told 
Lady Dashfort that he had heard a report which shocked 
him much — he hoped it could not be true — that one of 
these officers had introduced his mistress as his wife to 
Lady Oranmore, who lived in the neighbourhood. This 
officer, it was said, had let Lady Oranmore send her car- 
riage for this woman ; and that she had dined at Oranmore 
with her ladyship and her daughters.* “But I cannot 
believe it! I cannot believe it to be possible, that any 
* Fact. 


133 


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gentleman, that any officer, could do such a thing!” said 
the count. 

“And is this all?” exclaimed Lady Dashfort. “Is this 
all the terrible affair, my good count, which has brought 
your face to this prodigious length?” 

The count looked at Lady Dashfort with astonishment. 

“Such a look of virtuous indignation,” continued she, 
“did I never behold, on or off the stage. Forgive me for 
laughing, count ; but, believe me, comedy goes through 
the world better than tragedy, and, take it all in all, does 
rather less mischief. As to the thing in question, I know 
nothing about it : I dare say, it is not true ; but, now, sup- 
pose it was — it is only a silly quiz, of a raw young officer, 
upon a prudish old dowager. I know nothing about it, for 
my part ; but, after all, what irreparable mischief has been 
done? Laugh at the thing, and then it is a jest — a bad 
one, perhaps, but still only a jest — and there’s an end of 
it ; but take it seriously, and there is no knowing where it 
might end — in half a dozen duels, maybe.” 

“Of that, madam,” said the count, “Lady Oranmore’s 
prudence and presence of mind have prevented all danger. 
Her ladyship would not understand the insult. She said, 
or she acted as if she said, ‘ Je ne veux rien voir, rien ^couter, 
rien savoir,* Lady Oranmore is one of the most respect- 
able ” 

“Count, I beg your pardon!” interrupted Lady Dash- 
fort ; “but I must tell you that your favourite. Lady Oran- 
more, has behaved very ill to me; purposely omitted to 
invite Isabel to her ball; offended and insulted me: — her 
praises, therefore, cannot be the most agreeable subject of 
conversation you can choose for my amusement ; and as to 
the rest, you, who have such variety and so much polite- 
ness, w'ill, I am sure, have the goodness to indulge my 
caprice in this instance.” 

“I shall obey your ladyship, and be silent, whatever 
pleasure it might give me to speak on that subject,” said 
the count; “and I trust Lady Dashfort will reward me by 
the assurance that, however playfully she may have just 
now spoken, she seriously disapproves and is shocked.” 

134 


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*'0h, shocked! shocked to death! if that will satisfy 
you, my dear count.” 

The count, obviously, was not satisfied : he had civil, as 
well as military courage, and his sense of right and wrong 
could stand against the raillery and ridicule of a fine lady. 

The conversation ended : Lady Dashfort thought it 
would have no further consequences ; and she did not regret 
the loss of a man like Count O’Halloran, who lived retired 
in his castle, and who could not have any influence upon 
the opinion of the fashionable world. However, upon 
turning from the count to Lord Colambre, who she thought 
had been occupied with Lady Isabel, and to whom she 
imagined all this dispute was uninteresting, she perceived, 
by his countenance, that she had made a great mistake. 
Still she trusted that her power over Lord Colambre was 
sufficient easily to efface whatever unfavourable impression 
this conversation had made upon his mind. He had no 
personal interest in the affair; and she had generally found 
that people are easily satisfied about any wrong or insult, 
public or private, in which they have no immediate con- 
cern. But all the charms of her conversation were now 
tried in vain to reclaim him from the reverie into which he 
had fallen. 

His friend Sir James Brooke’s parting advice occurred to 
our hero ; his eyes began to open to Lady Dashfort ’s char- 
acter ; and he was, from this moment, freed from her power. 
Lady Isabel, however, had taken no part in all this — she 
was blameless; and, independently of her mother, and in 
pretended opposition of sentiment, she might have con- 
tinued to retain the influence she had gained over Lord 
Colambre, but that a slight accident revealed to him her 
real disposition. 

It happened, on the evening of this day, that Lady 
Isabel came into the library with one of the young ladies 
of the house, talking very eagerly, without perceiving Lord 
Colambre, who was sitting in one of the recesses reading. 

“My dear creature, you are quite mistaken,” said Lady 
Isabel, ‘‘he was never a favourite of mine; I always de- 
tested him ; I only flirted with him to plague his wife. Oh 

135 


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that wife, my dear Elizabeth, I do hate! ” cried she, clasp- 
ing her hands, and expressing hatred with all her soul and 
with all her strength. “I detest that Lady de Cresey to 
such a degree, that, to purchase the pleasure of making her 
feel the pangs of jealousy for one hour, look, I would this 
moment lay down this finger and let it be cut off.” 

The face, the whole figure of Lady Isabel at this moment 
appeared to Lord Colambre suddenly metamorphosed ; in- 
stead of the soft, gentle, amiable female, all sweet charity 
and tender sympathy, formed to love and to be loved, he 
beheld one possessed and convulsed by an evil spirit — her 
beauty, if beauty it could be called, the beauty of a fiend. 
Some ejaculation, which he unconsciously uttered, made 
Lady Isabel start. She saw him — saw the expression of 
his countenance, and knew that all was over. 

Lord Colambre, to the utter astonishment and disap- 
pointment of Lady Dashfort, and to the still greater morti- 
fication of Lady Isabel, announced this night that it was 
necessary he should immediately pursue his tour in Ireland. 
We pass over all the castles in the air which the young 
ladies of the family had built, and which now fell to the 
ground. We pass all the civil speeches of Lord and Lady 
Killpatrick ; all the vehement remonstrances of Lady Dash- 
fort; and the vain sighs of Lady Isabel. To the last 
moment Lady Dashfort said — 

“He will not go.” 

But he went; and, when he was gone. Lady Dashfort 
exclaimed, “That man has escaped from me.” And after 
a pause, turning to her daughter, she, in the most taunting 
and contemptuous terms, reproached her as the cause of 
this failure, concluding by a declaration that she must in 
future manage her own affairs, and had best settle her mind 
to marry Heathcock, since every one else was too wise to 
think of her. 

Lady Isabel of course retorted. But we leave this ami- 
able mother and daughter to recriminate in appropriate 
terms, and we follow our hero, rejoiced that he has been 
disentangled from their snares. Those who have never 
been in similar peril will wonder much that he did not 

136 


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escape sooner; those who have ever been in like danger 
will wonder more that he escaped at all. Those who are 
best acquainted with the heart or imagination of man will 
be most ready to acknowledge that the combined charms 
of wit, beauty, and flattery, may, for a time, suspend the 
action of right reason in the mind of the greatest philo- 
sopher, or operate against the resolutions of the greatest 
of heroes. 

Lord Colambre pursued his way to Castle Halloran, de- 
sirous, before he quitted this part of the country, to take 
leave of the count, who had shown him much civility, and 
for whose honourable conduct, and generous character, he 
had conceived a high esteem, which no little peculiarities 
of antiquated dress or manner could diminish. Indeed, 
the old-fashioned politeness of what was formerly called a 
well-bred gentleman pleased him better than the indolent 
or insolent selfishness of modern men of the ton. Per- 
haps, notwithstanding our hero’s determination to turn 
his mind from everything connected with the idea of Miss 
Nugent, some latent curiosity about the burial-place of the 
Nugents might have operated to make him call upon the 
count. In this hope he was disappointed ; for a cross mil- 
ler, to whom the abbey-ground was set, on which the 
burial-place was found, had taken it into his head to refuse 
admittance, and none could enter his ground. 

Count O’ Halloran was much pleased by Lord Colam- 
bre’s visit. The very day of Lord Colambre’s arrival at 
Halloran Castle, the count was going to Oranmore; he was 
dressed, and his carriage was waiting; therefore Lord Co- 
lambre begged that he might not detain him, and the count 
requested his lordship to accompany him. 

“Let me have the honour of introducing you, my lord, 
to a family, with whom, I am persuaded, you will be 
pleased ; by whom you will be appreciated ; and at whose 
house you will have an opportunity of seeing the best man- 
ner of living of the Irish nobility.” Lord Colambre ac- 
cepted the invitation, and was introduced at Oranmore. 
The dignified appearance and respectable character of 
Lady Oranmore ; the charming unaffected manners of her 

137 


THE ABSENTEE 


daughters ; the air of domestic happiness and comfort in her 
family ; the becoming magnificence, free from ostentation, 
in her whole establishment ; the respect and affection with 
which she was treated by all who approached her, delighted 
and touched Lord Colambre; the more, perhaps, because 
he had heard this family so unjustly abused; and because 
he saw Lady Oranmore and her daughter, in immediate 
contrast to Lady Dashfort and Lady Isabel.” 

A little circumstance which occurred during this visit 
increased his interest for the family. When Lady de 
Cresey’s little boys came in after dinner, one of them was 
playing with a seal, which had just been torn from a letter. 
The child showed it to Lord Colambre, and asked him to 
read the motto. The motto was, “Deeds, not words” — 
his friend Sir James Brooke’s motto, and his arms. Lord 
Colambre eagerly inquired if this family was acquainted 
with Sir James, and he soon perceived that they were not 
only acquainted with him, but that they were particularly 
interested about him. 

Lady Oranmore’s second daughter. Lady Harriet, ap- 
peared particularly pleased by the manner in which Lord 
Colambre spoke of Sir James. And the child, who had 
now established himself on his lordship’s knee, turned 
round, and whispered in his ear, “ ’Twas Aunt Harriet gave 
me the seal; Sir James is to be married to Aunt Harriet, 
and then he will be my uncle.” 

Some of the principal gentry of this part of the country 
happened to dine at Oranmore one of the days Lord Co- 
lambre was there. He was surprised at the discovery, that 
there were so many agreeable, well-informed, and well-bred 
people, of whom, while he was at Killpatrickstown, he had 
seen nothing. He now discerned how far he had been 
deceived by Lady Dashfort. 

Both the count, and Lord and Lady Oranmore, who 
were warmly attached to their country, exhorted him to 
make himself amends for the time he had lost, by seeing 
with his own eyes, and judging with his own understand- 
ing, of the country and its own inhabitants, during the 
remainder of the time he was to stay in Ireland. The 

138 


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higher classes, in most countries, they observed were gen- 
erally similar; but, in the lower class, he would find many 
characteristic differences. 

When he first came to Ireland, he had been very eager 
to go and see his father’s estate, and to judge of the con- 
duct of his agents, and the condition of his tenantry ; but 
this eagerness had subsided, and the design had almost 
faded from his mind, whilst under the influence of Lady 
Dashfort’s misrepresentations. A mistake, relative to some 
remittance from his banker in Dublin, obliged him to de- 
lay his journey a few days, and during that time Lord and 
Lady Oranmore showed him the neat cottages, the well- 
attended schools, in their neighbourhood. They showed 
him not only what could be done, but what had been done, 
by the influence of great proprietors residing on their own 
estates, and encouraging the people by judicious kindness. 

He saw, he acknowledged the truth of this ; but it did 
not come home to his feelings now as it would have done 
a little while ago. His views and plans were altered; he 
looked forward to the idea of marrying and settling in Ire- 
land, and then everything in the country was interesting to 
him ; but since he had forbidden himself to think of a union 
with Miss Nugent, his mind had lost its object and its 
spring; he was not sufficiently calm to think of the public 
good ; his thoughts were absorbed by his private concern. 
He knew, and repeated to himself, that he ought to visit 
his own and his father’s estates, and to see the condition 
of his tenantry; he desired to fulfil his duties, but they 
ceased to appear to him easy and pleasurable, for hope and 
love no longer brightened his prospects. 

That he might see and hear more than he could as heir- 
apparent to* the estate, he sent his servant to Dublin to 
wait for him there. He travelled incognito, wrapped him- 
self in a shabby greatcoat, and took the name of Evans. 
He arrived at a village, or, as it was called, a town, which 
bore the name of Colambre. He was agreeably surprised 
by the air of neatness and finish in the houses and in the 
street, which had a nicely-swept paved footway. He slept 
at a small but excellent inn — excellent, perhaps, because 

139 


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it was small, and proportioned to the situation and business 
of the place. Good supper, good bed, good attendance; 
nothing out of repair; no things pressed into services for 
what they were never intended by nature or art ; none of 
what are vulgarly called makeshifts. No chambermaid 
slipshod, or waiter smelling of whisky ; but all tight and 
right, and everybody doing their own business, and doing 
it as if it was their everyday occupation, not as if it was 
done by particular desire, for first or last time this season. 
The landlord came in at supper to inquire whether anything 
was wanted. Lord Colambre took this opportunity of 
entering into conversation with him, and asked him to 
whom the town belonged, and who were the proprietors 
of the neighbouring estates. 

“The town belongs to an absentee lord — one Lord Clon- 
brony, who lives always beyond the seas, in London ; and 
never seen the town since it was a town, to call a town.’" 

“And does the land in the neighbourhood belong to this 
Lord Clonbrony? ’’ 

“It does, sir; he’s a great proprietor, but knows nothing 
of his property, nor of us. Never set foot among us, to 
my knowledge, since I was as high as the table. He 
might as well be a West India planter, and we negroes, for 
anything he knows to the contrary — has no more care, nor 
thought about us, than if he were in Jamaica, or the 
other world. Shame for him ! — But there’s too many to 
keep him in countenance.’’ 

Lord Colambre asked him what wine he could have ; and 
then inquired who managed the estate for this absentee. 

“Mr. Burke, sir. And I don’t know why God was so 
kind to give so good an agent to an absentee like Lord 
Clonbrony, except it was for the sake of us, who is under 
him, and knows the blessing, and is thankful for the same.’’ 

“Very good cutlets,’’ said Lord Colambre. 

“I am happy to hear it, sir. They have a right to be 
good, for Mrs. Burke sent her own cook to teach my wife 
to dress cutlets.’’ 

“So the agent is a good agent, is he? ” 

“He is, thanks be to Heaven ! And that’s what few can 
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boast, especially when the landlord’s living over the seas : 
we have the luck to have got a good agent over us, in Mr. 
Burke, who is a right bred gentleman ; a snug little pro- 
perty of his own, honestly made ; with the good will and 
good wishes, and respect of all.” 

“Does he live in the neighbourhood? ” 

“Just convanient^ At the end of the town ; in the house 
on the hill, as you passed, sir ; to the left, with the trees 
about it, all of his planting, finely grown too — for there’s 
a blessing on all he does, and he has done a deal. — There’s 
salad, sir, if you are partial to it. Very fine lettuce. Mrs. 
Burke sent us the plants herself.” 

“Excellent salad! So this Mr. Burke has done a great 
deal, has he? In what way? ” 

“In every way, sir — sure was not it he that had im- 
proved, and fostered, and made the town of Colambre? — 
no thanks to the proprietor, nor to the young man whose 
name it bears, neither! ” 

“Have you any porter, pray, sir? ” 

“We have, sir, as good, I hope, as you’d drink in Lon- 
don, for it’s the same you get there, I understand, from 
Cork. And I have some of my own brewing, which, they 
say, you could not tell the difference between it and Cork 
quality — if you’d be pleased to try. Harry, the cork- 
screw. ’ ’ 

The porter of his own brewing was pronounced to be 
extremely good; and the landlord observed it was Mr. 
Burke encouraged him to learn to brew, and lent him his 
own brewer for a time to teach him. 

“Your Mr. Burke, I find, is apropos to porter, apropos to 
salad, apropos to cutlets, apropos to everything,” said Lord 
Colambre, smiling; “he seems to be a non-pareil of an 
agent. I suppose you are a great favourite of his, and 
you do what you please with him? ” 

“Oh no, sir, I could not say that; Mr. Burke does not 
have favourites anyway; but according to my deserts, I 
trust, I stand well enough with him, for, in truth, he is a 
right good agent.” 


* Convenient : near. 


THE ABSENTEE 


Lord Colambre still pressed for particulars; he was an 
Englishman, and a stranger, he said, and did not exactly 
know what was meant in Ireland by a good agent. 

“Why, he is the man that will encourage the improving 
tenant ; and show no favour or affection, but justice, which 
comes even to all, and does best for all at the long run; 
and, residing always in the country, like Mr. Burke, and 
understanding country business, and going about continu- 
ally among the tenantry, he knows when to press for the 
rent, and when to leave the money to lay out upon the land ; 
and, according as they would want it, can give a tenant a 
help or a check properly. Then no duty-work called for, 
no presents, nor glove-money, nor sealing-money even, taken 
or offered ; no underhand hints about proposals, when land 
would be out of lease, but a considerable preference, if 
des<3:rved, to the old tenant, and if not, a fair advertise- 
ment, and the best offer and tenant accepted; no screwing 
of the land to the highest penny, just to please the head 
landlord for the minute, and ruin him at the end, by the 
tenant’s racking the land, and running off with the year’s 
rent; nor no bargains to his own relations or friends did 
Mr. Burke ever give or grant, but all fair between landlord 
and tenant ; and that’s the thing that will last ; and that’s 
what I call the good agent.’* 

Lord Colambre poured out a glass of wine, and begged 
the innkeeper to drink the good agent’s health, in which 
he was heartily pledged. “I thank your honour; — Mr. 
Burke’s health ! and long may he live over and amongst 
us; he saved me from drink and ruin, when I was once in- 
clined to it, and made a man of me and all my family.’* 
The particulars we cannot stay to detail : this grateful 
man, however, took pleasure in sounding the praises of his 
benefactor, and in raising him in the opinion of the traveller. 

“As you’ve time, and are curious about such things, sir, 
perhaps you’d walk up to the school that Mrs. Burke has 
for the poor children ; and look at the market-house, and 
see how clean he takes a pride to keep the town ; and any 
house in the town, from the priest’s to the parson’s, that 
you’d go into, will give you the same character as I do of 

142 


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Mr. Burke: from the brogue to the boot, all speak the 
same of him, and can say no other. God for ever bless 
and keep him over us! ” 

Upon making further inquiries, everything the innkeeper 
had said was confirmed by different inhabitants of the vil- 
lage. Lord Colambre conversed with the shopkeepers, 
with the cottagers ; and, without making any alarming in- 
quiries, he obtained all the information he wanted. He 
went to the village school — a pretty, cheerful house, with 
a neat garden and a play -green; met Mrs. Burke; intro- 
duced himself to her as a traveller. The school was shown 
to him : it was just what it ought to be — neither too much 
nor too little had been attempted; there was neither too 
much interference nor too little attention. Nothing for 
exhibition ; care to teach well, without any vain attempt 
to teach in a wonderfully short time. All that experience 
proves to be useful, in both Dr. Bell’s and Mr. Lancaster’s 
modes of teaching, Mrs. Burke had adopted; leaving it to 
“graceless zealots’’ to fight about the rest. That no at- 
tempts at proselytism had been made, and that no illiberal 
distinctions had been made in this school. Lord Colambre 
was convinced, in the best manner possible, by seeing the 
children of Protestants and Catholics sitting on the same 
benches, learning from the same books, and speaking to 
one another with the same cordial familiarity. Mrs. Burke 
was an unaffected, sensible woman, free from all party pre- 
judices, and, without ostentation, desirous and capable of 
doing good. Lord Colambre was much pleased with her, 
and very glad that she invited him to dinner. 

Mr. Burke did not come in till late; for he had been de- 
tained portioning out some meadows, which were of great 
consequence to the inhabitants of the town. He brought 
home to dine with him the clergyman and the priest of the 
parish, both of whom he had taken successful pains to ac- 
commodate with the land which suited their respective 
convenience. The good terms on which they seemed to 
be with each other, and with him, appeared to Lord 
Colambre to do honour to Mr. Burke. All the favourable 
accounts his lordship had received of this gentleman were 

143 


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confirmed by what he saw and heard. After the clergy- 
man and priest had taken leave, upon Lord Colambre’s 
expressing some surprise, mixed with satisfaction, at seeing 
the harmony which subsisted between them, Mr. Burke 
assured him that this was the same in many parts of Ire- 
land. He observed, that “as the suspicion of ill-will never 
fails to produce it, “ so he had often found, that taking it 
for granted that no ill-will exists has the most conciliating 
effect. He said, to please opposite parties, he used no 
arts ; but he tried to make all his neighbours live comfort- 
ably together, by making them acquainted with each other’s 
good qualities; by giving them opportunities of meeting 
sociably, and, from time to time, of doing each other little 
services and good offices. “Fortunately, he had so much 
to do,” he said, “that he had no time for controversy. 
He was a plain man, made it a rule not to meddle with 
speculative points, and to avoid all irritating discussions ; 
he was not to rule the country, but to live in it, and make 
others live as happily as he could.” 

Having nothing to conceal in his character, opinions, or 
circumstances, Mr. Burke was perfectly open and unre- 
served in his manner and conversation ; freely answered all 
the traveller’s inquiries, and took pains to show him every- 
thing he desired to see. Lord Colambre said he had 
thoughts of settling in Ireland ; and declared, with truth, 
that he had not seen any part of the country he should like 
better to live in than this neighbourhood. He went over 
most of the estate with Mr. Burke, and had ample oppor- 
tunities of convincing himself that this gentleman was in- 
deed. as the innkeeper had described him, “a right good 
gentleman, and a right good agent.” 

He paid Mr. Burke some just compliments on the state 
of the tenantry, and the neat and flourishing appearance 
of the town of Colambre. 

“What pleasure it will give the proprietor when he sees 
all you have done! ” said Lord Colambre. 

“Oh, sir, don’t speak of it! — that breaks my heart; he 
never has shown the least interest in anything I have done ; 
he is quite dissatisfied with me, because I have not ruined 

144 


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his tenantry, by forcing them to pay more than the land is 
worth ; because I have not squeezed money from them by 
fining down rents; and — but all this, as an Englishman, 
sir, must be unintelligible to you. The end of the matter 
is, that, attached as I am to this place and the people about 
me, and, as I hope, the tenantry are to me — I fear I shall 
be obliged to give up the agency.” 

“Give up the agency! How so? — you must not,” cried 
Lord Colambre, and, for the moment, he forgot himself ; 
but Mr. Burke took this only for an expression of good- 
will. 

”I must, I am afraid,” continued he. “My employer. 
Lord Clonbrony, is displeased with me — continual calls for 
money come upon me from England, and complaints of 
my slow remittances.” 

“Perhaps Lord Clonbrony is in embarrassed circum- 
stances,” said Lord Colambre. 

“I never speak of my employer’s affairs, sir,” replied 
Mr. Burke; now for the first time assuming an air of 
reserve. 

“I beg pardon, sir — I seem to have asked an indiscreet 
question.” Mrs. Burke was silent. 

“Lest my reserve should give you a false impression, I 
will add, sir,” resumed Mr. Burke, “that I really am not 
acquainted with the state of his lordship’s affairs in general. 
I know only what belongs to the estate under my own 
management. The principal part of his lordship’s pro- 
perty, the Clonbrony estate, is under another agent, Mr. 
Garraghty . 

“Garraghty ! ” repeated Lord Colambre; “what sort of 
a person is he? But I may take it for granted, that it 
cannot fall to the lot of one and the same absentee to 
have two such agents as Mr. Burke.” 

Mr. Burke bowed, and seemed pleased by the compli- 
ment, which he knew he deserved — but not a word did he 
say of Mr. Garraghty; and Lord Colambre, afraid of be- 
traying himself by some other indiscreet question, changed 
the conversation. 

That very night the post brought a letter to Mr. Burke, 
lo 145 


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from Lord Clonbrony, which Mr. Burke gave to his wife 
as soon as he had read it, saying — 

“See the reward of all my services! ” 

Mrs. Burke glanced her eye over the letter, and, being 
extremely fond of her husband, and sensible of his deserv- 
ing far different treatment, burst into indignant exclama- 
tions — 

“See the reward of all your services, indeed! — What an 
unreasonable, ungrateful man ! — So, this is the thanks for 
all you have done for Lord Clonbrony ! ” 

“He does not know what I have done, my dear. He 
never has seen what I have done.” 

“More shame for him! ” 

“He never, I suppose, looks over his accounts, or under- 
stands them.” 

“More shame for him! ” 

“He listens to foolish reports, or misrepresentations, 
perhaps. He is at a distance, and cannot find out the 
truth.” 

“More shame for him! ” 

“Take it quietly, my dear; we have the comfort of a 
good conscience. The agency may be taken from me by 
this lord ; but the sense of having done my duty, no lord 
or man upon earth can give or take away.” 

“Such a letter!” said Mrs. Burke, taking it up again. 
“Not even the civility to write with his own hand! — only 
his signature to the scrawl — looks as if it was written by a 
drunken man, does not it, Mr. Evans?” said she, showing 
the letter to Lord Colambre, who immediately recognised 
the writing of Sir Terence O’Fay. 

“It does not look like the hand of a gentleman, indeed,” 
said Lord Colambre. 

“It has Lord Clonbrony ’s own signature, let it be what 
it will,” said Mr. Burke, looking closely at it ; “Lord Clon- 
brony 's own writing the signature is, I am clear of that.” 

Lord Clonbrony’s son was clear of it also; but he took 
care not to give any opinion on that point. 

“Oh, pray, read it, sir, read it,” said Mrs. Burke, pleased 
by his tone of indignation; “read it, pray; a gentleman 

146 


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may write a bad hand, but no gentleman could write such 
a letter as that to Mr. Burke — pray read it, sir; you who 
have seen something of what Mr. Burke has done for the 
town of Colambre, and what he has made of the tenantry 
and the estate of Lord Clonbrony. ” 

Lord Colambre read, and was convinced that his father 
had never written or read the letter, but had signed it, 
trusting to Sir Terence O’Fay’s having expressed his senti- 
ments properly. 

Sir, 

As I have no further occasion for your services, you will take 
notice, that I hereby request you will forthwith hand over, on 
or before the ist of November next, your accounts, with the 
balance due of the hanging-gale (which, I understand, is more 
than ought to be at this season) to Nicholas O’Garraghty, Esq., 
College Green, Dublin, who in future will act as agent, and 
shall get, by post, immediately, a power of attorney for the 
same, entitling him to receive and manage the Colambre as well 
as the Clonbrony estate, for, Sir, your obedient humble servant, 

Clonbrony. 

“Grosvenor Square.*' 

Though misrepresentation, caprice, or interest, might 
have induced Lord Clonbrony to desire to change his 
agent, yet Lord Colambre knew that his father could never 
have announced his wishes in such a style ; and, as he re- 
turned the letter to Mrs. Burke, he repeated, he was con- 
vinced that it was impossible that any nobleman could 
have written such a letter ; that it must have been written 
by some inferior person ; and that his lordship had signed 
it without reading it. 

“My dear, I’m sorry you showed that letter to Mr. 
Evans,” said Mr. Burke; “I don’t like to expose Lord 
Clonbrony; he is a well-meaning gentleman, misled by 
ignorant or designing people ; at all events, it is not for us 
to expose him.” 

“He has exposed himself,” said Mrs. Burke; “and the 
world should know it.” 


147 


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'‘He was very kind to me when I was a young man/‘ 
said Mr. Burke; “we must not forget that now, because 
we are angry, my love.“ 

“Why, no, my love, to be sure we should not; but who 
could have recollected it just at this minute but yourself? 
— And now, sir,“ turning to Lord Colambre, “you see 
what kind of a man this is : now is it not difficult for me to 
bear patiently to see him ill-treated? “ 

“Not only difficult, but impossible, I should think, 
madam,” said Lord Colambre; “I know, even I, who am 
a stranger, cannot help feeling for both of you, as you 
must see I do. ” 

“And half the world, who don’t know him,” continued 
Mrs. Burke, “when they hear that Lord Clonbrony’s 
agency is taken from him, will think, perhaps, that he is 
to blame.” 

“No, madam,” said Lord Colambre; “that you need 
not fear; Mr. Burke may safely trust to his character; 
from what I have within these two days seen and heard, I 
am convinced that such is the respect he has deserved and 
acquired, that no blame can touch him.” 

“Sir, I thank you,” said Mrs. Burke, the tears coming 
into her eyes; “you can judge — you do him justice; but 
there are so many who don’t know him, and who will de- 
cide without knowing any of the facts.” 

“That, my dear, happens about everything to every- 
body,” said Mr. Burke; “but we must have patience; 
time sets all judgments right, sooner or later.” 

“But the sooner the better,” said Mrs. Burke. “Mr. 
Evans, I hope you will be so kind, if ever you hear this 
business talked of ” 

“Mr. Evans lives in Wales, my dear.” 

“But he is travelling through Ireland, my dear, and he 
said he should return to Dublin, and, you know, there he 
certainly will hear it talked of ; and I hope he will do me 
the favour to state what he has seen and knows to be the 
truth.” 

“Be assured that I will do Mr. Burke justice — as far as 
it is in my power,” said Lord Colambre, restraining him- 

148 


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self much, that he might not say more than became his 
assumed character. He took leave of this worthy family 
that night, and, early the next morning, departed. 

“Ah!” thought he, as he drove away from this well- 
regulated and flourishing place, “how happy I might be, 
settled here with such a wife as — her of whom I must think 
no more.” 

He pursued his way to Clonbrony, his father’s other 
estate, which was at a considerable distance from Colam- 
bre; he was resolved to know what kind of agent Mr. 
Nicholas Garraghty might be, who was to supersede Mr. 
Burke, and by power of attorney to be immediately en- 
titled to receive and manage the Colambre as well as the 
Clonbrony estate. 


CHAPTER X. 

T owards the evening of the second day’s journey, 
the driver of Lord Colambre’s hackney chaise 
stopped, and jumping off the wooden bar, on which 
he had been seated, exclaimed — 

“We’re come to the bad step, now. The bad road’s 
beginning upon us, please your honour.” 

“Bad road! that is very uncommon in this country. I 
never saw such fine roads as you have in Ireland.” 

“That’s true ; and God bless your honour, that’s sensible 
of that same, for it’s not what all the foreign quality I 
drive have the manners to notice. God bless your honour ! 
I heard you’re a Welshman, but whether or no, I am sure 
you are a gentleman, anyway, Welsh or other.” 

Notwithstanding the shabby greatcoat, the shrewd pos- 
tillion perceived, by our hero’s language, that he was a 
gentleman. After much dragging at the horses’ heads, 
and pushing and ‘lifting, the carriage was got over what 
the postillion said was the worst part of the bad step ; but 
as the road “was not yet to say good,” he continued walk- 
ing beside the carriage. 


149 


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*Ht’s only bad just hereabouts, and that by accident,'’ 
said he, “on account of there being no jantleman resident 
in it, nor near; but only a bit of an under-agent, a great 
little rogue, who gets his own turn out of the roads, and of 
everything else in life. I, Larry Brady, that am telling 
your honour, have a good right to know, for myself, and 
my father, and my brother. Pat Brady, the wheelwright, 
had once a farm under him; but was ruined, horse and 
foot, all along with him, and cast out, and my brother 
forced to fly the country, and is now working in some 
coachmaker’s yard, in London ; banished he is ! — and here 
am I, forced to be what I am — and now that I’m reduced 
to drive a hack, the agent’s a curse to me still, with these 
bad roads, killing my horses and wheels — and a shame to 
the country, which I think more of — Bad luck to him ! ” 

“I know your brother; he lives with Mr. Mordicai, in 
Long Acre, in London.’’ 

“Oh, God bless you for that! ’’ 

They came at this time within view of a range of about 
four-and-twenty men and boys, sitting astride on four-and- 
twenty heaps of broken stones, on each side of the road ; 
they were all armed with hammers, with which they began 
to pound with great diligence and noise as soon as they 
saw the carriage. The chaise passed between these bat- 
teries, the stones flying on all sides. 

“How are you, Jem? — How are you, Phil?’’ said Larry. 
“But hold your hand, can’t ye, while I stop and get the 
stones out of the horses’ So you’re making up the 
rent, are you, for St. Dennis? ’’ 

“Whoosh! ’’ said one of the pounders, coming close to 
the postillion, and pointing his thumb back towards the 
chaise. “Who have you in it? ’’ 

“Oh, you need not scruple, he’s a very honest man; — 
he’s only a man from North Wales, one Mr. Evans, an 
innocent jantleman, that’s sent over to travel up and 
down the country, to find is there any copper mines in it.’’ 
“How do you know, Larry?’’ 

“Because I know very well, from one that was tould, 
and I seen him tax the man of the King’s Head, with a 

ISO 


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copper half-crown, at first sight, which was only lead to 
look at, you’d think, to them that was not skilful in cop- 
per. So lend me a knife, till I cut a linch-pin out of the 
hedge, for this one won’t go far.” 

Whilst Larry was making the linch-pin, all scruple being 
removed, his question about St. Dennis and the rent was 
answered. 

“Ay, it’s the rint, sure enough, we’re pounding out for 
him ; for he sent the driver round last-night-was-eight days, 
to warn us old Nick would be down a’-Monday, to take a 
sweep among us ; and there’s only six clear days, Saturday 
night, before the assizes, sure ; so we must see and get it 
finished anyway, to clear the presentment again’ the swear- 
ing day, for he and Paddy Hart is the overseers themselves, 
and Paddy is to swear to it.” 

“St. Dennis, is it? Then you’ve one great comfort and 
security — that he won’t be particular about the swearing; 
for since ever he had his head on his shoulders, an oath 
never stuck in St. Dennis’s throat, more than in his own 
brother, old Nick’s.” 

“His head upon his shoulders!” repeated Lord Colam- 
bre. “Pray, did you ever hear that St. Dennis’s head 
was off his shoulders? ” 

“It never was, plase your honour, to my knowledge.” 

“Did you never, among your saints, hear of St. Dennis 
carrying his head in his hand? ” said Colambre. 

“The rael saint 1 ” said the postillion, suddenly changing 
his tone, and looking shocked. “Oh, don’t be talking 
that way of the saints, pl/3:se your honour.” 

“Then of what St. Dennis were you talking just now? — 
Whom do you mean by St. Dennis, and whom do you call 
old Nick?” 

“Old Nick,” answered the postillion, coming close to 
the side of the carriage, and whispering — “Old Nick, plase 
your honour, is our nickname for one Nicholas Garraghty, 
Esq., of College Green, Dublin, and St. Dennis is his 
brother Dennis, who is old Nick’s brother in all things, 
and would fain be a saint, only he is a sinner. He 
lives just by here, in the country, under-agent to Lord 

I5I 


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Clonbrony, as old Nick is upper-agent — it’s only a joke 
among the people, that are not fond of them at all. Lord 
Clonbrony himself is a very good jantleman, if he was 
not an absentee, resident in London, leaving us and every- 
thing to the likes of them.” 

Lord Colambre listened with all possible composure and 
attention ; but the postillion having now made his linch-pin 
of wood, and fixed himself, he mounted his bar, and drove 
on, saying to Lord Colambre, as he looked at the road- 
makers — 

“Poor cratures ! They couldn’t keep their cattle out of 
pound, or themselves out of jail, but by making this road.” 

“Is road-making, then, a very profitable business? — 
Have road-makers higher wages than other men in this 
part of the country? ” 

“It is, and it is not — they have, and they have not — 
plase your honour.” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“No, becaase you’re an Englishman — that is, a Welsh- 
man — I beg your honour’s pardon. But I’ll tell you how 
that is, and I’ll go slow over these broken stones, — for I 
can’t go fast: it is where there’s no jantleman over these 
under-agents, as here, they do as they plase; and when 
they have set the land they get rasonable from the head 
landlords, to poor cratures at a rack-rent, that they can’t 
live and pay the rent, they say ” 

“Who says?” 

“Them under-agents, that have no conscience at all. 
Not all — but some, like Dennis, says, says he, ‘I’ll get you 
a road to make up the rent’ : that is, plase your honour, 
the agent gets them a presentment for so many perches of 
road from the grand jury, at twice the price that would 
make the road. And tenants are, by this means, as they 
take the road by contract, at the price given by the county, 
able to pay all they get by the job, over and above pota- 
toes and salt, back again to the agent, for the arrear on the 
land. Do I make your honour sensible ‘ ” 

“You make me much more sensible than I ever was 
* Do I make you understand ? 

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before,” said Lord Colambre; “but is not this cheating 
the county? “ 

“Well, and suppose,” replied Larry, “is not it all for my 
good, and yours too, plase your honour?” said Larry, 
looking very shrewdly. 

“My good!” said Lord Colambre, startled. “What 
have I to do with it?” 

“Haven’t you to do with the roads as well as me, when 
you’re travelling upon them, plase your honour? And sure, 
they’d never be got made at all, if they weren’t made this 
ways; and it’s the best way in the wide world, and the fin- 
est roads we have. And when the rc?^/jantlemen’s resident 
in the country, there’s no jobbing can be, because they’re 
then the leading men on the grand jury ; and these journey- 
men jantlemen are then kept in order, and all’s right.” 

Lord Colambre was much surprised at Larry’s knowledge 
of the manner in which county business is managed, as 
well as by his shrewd good sense : he did not know that 
this is not uncommon in his rank of life in Ireland. 

Whilst Larry was speaking. Lord Colambre was looking 
from side to side at the desolation of the prospect. 

“So this is Lord Clonbrony’s estate, is it?” 

“Ay, all you see, and as far and farther than you can 
see. My Lord Clonbrony wrote, and ordered plantations 
here, time back; and enough was paid to labourers for 
ditching and planting. And, what next? — Why, what did 
the under-agent do, but let the goats in through gaps, left 
o’ purpose, to bark the trees, and then the trees was all 
banished. And next, the cattle was let in trespassing, and 
winked at, till the land was all poached ; and then the land 
was waste, and cried down ; and St. Dennis wrote up to 
Dublin to old Nick, and he over to the landlord, how none 
would take it, or bid anything at all for it ; so then it fell 
to him a cheap bargain. Oh, the tricks of them! who 
knows ’em, if I don’t?” 

Presently, Lord Colambre’s attention was roused again, 
by seeing a man running, as if for his life, across a bog, 
near the roadside ; he leaped over the ditch, and was upon 
the road in an instant. He seemed startled at first, at the 

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sight of the carriage ; but, looking at the postillion, Larry 
nodded, and he smiled and said — 

“Airs safe!” 

“Pray, my good friend, may I ask what that is you 
have on your shoulder? ” said Lord Colambre. 

'' Plase your honour, it is only a private still, which I’ve 
just caught out yonder in the bog; and I’m carrying it in 
with all speed to the gauger, to make a discovery, that the 
jantleman may benefit by the reward ; I expect he’ll make 
me a compliment.” 

“Get up behind, and I’ll give you a lift,” said the 
postillion. • 

“Thank you kindly — but better my legs! ” said the man ; 
and turning down a lane, off he ran again as fast as pos- 
sible. 

“Expect he’ll make me a compliment,” repeated Lord 
Colambre, “to make a discovery! ” 

“Ay, plase your honour; for the law is,” said Larry, 
“that, if an unlawful still, that is, a still without license 
for whisky, is found, half the benefit of the fine that’s put 
upon the parish goes to him that made the discovery; 
that’s what that man is after, for he’s an informer.” 

“I should not have thought, from what I see of you,” 
said Lord Colambre, smiling, “that you, Larry, would 
have offered an informer a lift.” 

“Oh, plase your honour!” said Larry, smiling archly, 
“would not I give the laws a lift, when in my power? ” 

Scarcely had he uttered these words, and scarcely was 
the informer out of sight, when across the same bog, and 
over the ditch, came another man, a half kind of gentle- 
man, with a red silk handkerchief about his neck, and a 
silver-handled whip in his hand. 

“Did you see any man pass the road, friend?” said he 
to the postillion. 

“Oh! who would I see? or why would I tell?” replied 
Larry, in a sulky tone. 

“Come, come, be smart! ” said the man with the silver 
whip, offering to put half a crown into the postillion’s 
hand; “point me which way he took.” 

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'‘I'll have none o' your silver! don’t touch me with it ! " 
said Larry. “But, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll strike 
across back, and follow the fields, out to Killogenesawee.’’ 

The exciseman set out again immediately, in an opposite 
direction to that which the man who carried the still had 
taken. Lord Colambre now perceived that the pretended 
informer had been running off to conceal a still of his 
own. 

“The gauger, plase your honour,’’ said Larry, looking 
back at Lord Colambre; “the gauger is a still-hunting 

“And you put him on a wrong scent!’’ said Lord 
Colambre. 

“Sure, I told him no lie; I only said, ‘If you’ll take my 
advice.’ And why was he such a fool as to take my ad- 
vice, when I wouldn’t take his fee? ’’ 

“So this is the way, Larry, you give a lift to the laws! ’’ 

“If the laws would give a lift to me, plase your honour, 
maybe I’d do as much by them. But it’s only these 
revenue laws I mean ; for I never, to my knowledge, broke 
another commandment; but it’s what no honest poor man 
among his neighbours would scruple to take — a glass of 
pot sheen.'' 

“A glass of what, in the name of Heaven? ’’ said Lord 
Colambre. 

'' Potsheen^ plase your honour; — because it’s the little 
whisky that’s made in the private still or pot ; and sheen^ ^ 
because it’s a fond word for whatsoever we’d like, and for I 
what we have little of, and would make much of : after j 
taking the glass of it, no man could go and inform to ruin ' 
the cratures ; for they all shelter on that estate under 
favour of them that go shares, and make rent of ’em — but 
I’d never inform again’ ’em. And, after all, if the truth 
was known, and my Lord Clonbrony should be informed 
against, and presented, for it’s his neglect is the bottom of 
the nuisance ’’ 

“I find all the blame is thrown upon this poor Lord 
Clonbrony,’’ said Lord Colambre. 

“Because he is absent,’’ said Larry. “It would not be 
so was he prisint. But your honour was talking to me 

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about the laws. Your honour’s a stranger in this country, 
and astray about them things. Sure, why would I mind 
the laws about whisky, more than the quality, or the judge 
on the bench? ” 

“What do you mean? ” 

“Why! was not I prisint in the court-house myself, 
when the jidge was on the bench judging a still, and across 
the court came in one with a sly jug of potsheen for the 
jidge himself, who prefarred it, when the right thing, to 
1 claret ; and when I seen that, by the laws ! a man might 
talk himself dumb to me after again’ potsheen, or in favour 
of the revenue, or revenue-officers. And there they may 
go on, with their gaugers, and their surveyors, and their 
supervisors, and their watching-officer s, and their coursing- 
officers, setting ’em one after another, or one over the 
head of another, or what way they will — we can baffle and 
laugh at ’em. Didn’t I know, next door to our inn, last 
year, ten watching-officers set upon one distiller, and he 
was too cunning for them ; and it will always be so, while 
ever the people think it no sin. No, till then, not all their 
dockets and permits signify a rush, or a turf. And the 
gauging rod even! who fears it? They may spare that 
rod, for it will never mend the child.’’ 

How much longer Larry’s dissertation on the distillery 
laws would have continued, had not his ideas been inter- 
rupted, we cannot guess; but he saw he was coming to a 
town, and he gathered up the reins, and plied the whip, 
ambitious to make a figure in the eyes of its inhabitants. 

This town consisted of one row of miserable huts, sunk 
beneath the side of the road, the mud walls crooked in 
every direction ; some of them opening in wide cracks, or 
zigzag fissures, from top to bottom, as if there had just 
been an earthquake — all the roofs sunk in various places — 
thatch off, or overgrown with grass — no chimneys, the 
smoke making its way through a hole in the roof, or rising 
in clouds from the top of the open door — dunghills before 
the doors, and green standing puddles— squalid children, 
with scarcely rags to cover them, gazing at the carriage. 

“Nugent’s town,’’ said the postillion, “once a snug 
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place, when my Lady Clonbrony was at home to white- 
wash it, and the like.” 

As they drove by, some men and women put their heads 
through the smoke out of the cabins; pale women with 
long, black, or yellow locks — men with countenances and 
figures bereft of hope and energy. 

“Wretched, wretched people! ” said Lord Colambre. 

“Then it’s not their fault neither,” said Larry; “for my 
own uncle’s one of them, and as thriving and hard a work- 
ing man as could be in all Ireland, he was, afore he was 
tramped under foot, and his heart broke. I was at his 
funeral, this time last year; and for it, may the agent’s 
own heart, if he has any, burn ” 

Lord Colambre interrupted this denunciation by touch- 
ing Larry’s shoulder, and asking some question, which, as 
Larry did not distinctly comprehend, he pulled up the 
reins, and the various noises of the vehicle stopped sud- 
denly. 

“I did not hear well, plase your honour.” 

“What are those people?” pointing to a man and wo- 
man, curious figures, who had come out of a cabin, the 
door of which the woman, who came out last, locked, and 
carefully hiding the key in the thatch, turned her back 
upon the man, and they walked away in different direc- 
tions: the woman bending under a huge bundle on her 
back, covered by a yellow petticoat turned over her 
shoulders ; from the top of this bundle the head of an in- 
fant appeared; a little boy, almost naked, followed her 
with a kettle, and two girls, one of whom could but just 
walk, held her hand and clung to her ragged petticoat; 
forming, altogether, a complete group of beggars. The 
woman stopped, and looked back after the man. 

The man was a Spanish-looking figure, with grey hair; 
a wallet hung at the end of a stick over one shoulder, a 
reaping-hook in the other hand; he walked off stoutly, 
without ever casting a look behind him. 

“A kind harvest to you, John Dolan,” cried the postil- 
lion, “and success to ye, Winny, with the quality. There’s 
a luck-penny for the child to begin with,” added he, throw- 

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ing the child a penny. “Your honour, they’re only poor 
cratures going up the country to beg, while the man goes 
over to reap the harvest in England. Nor this would not 
be, neither, if the lord was in it to give ’em e^nploy. That 
man, now, was a good and a willing slave in his day: I 
mind him working with myself in the shrubberies at Clon- 
brony Castle, when I was a boy — but I’ll not be detaining 
your honour, now the road’s better.’’ 

The postillion drove on at a good rate for some time, 
till he came to a piece of the road freshly covered with 
broken stones, where he was obliged again to go slowly. 

They overtook a string of cars, on which were piled up 
high, beds, tables, chairs, trunks, boxes, bandboxes. 

“How are you, Finnucan? you’ve fine loading there — 
from Dublin, are you? ’’ 

“From Bray.” 

“And what news? ” 

Great news and bad, for old Nick, or some belonging 
to him, thanks be to. Heaven! for myself hates him.” 

“What’s happened him? ” 

“His sister’s husband that’s failed, the great grocer that 
was, the man that had the wife that owd^ the fine house 
near Bray, that they got that time the Parliament flitted, 
and that I seen in her carriage flaming — well, it’s all out; 
they’re all done up.'" 

“Tut! is that all? then they’ll thrive, and set up again 
grander than ever. I’ll engage; have not they old Nick for 
an attorney at their back? a good warrant ! ” 

“Oh, trust him for that ! he won’t go security nor pay a 
farthing for his shister, nor wouldn’t was she his father; I 
heard him telling her so, which I could not have done in 
his place at that time, and she crying as if her heart would 
break, and I standing by in the parlour.” 

“The negerl' And did he speak that way, and you 
by?” 

“Ay did he; and said, ‘Mrs. Raffarty,’ says he, ‘it’s all 
your own fault; you’re an extravagant fool, and ever was, 

* Owned. 

* Neger, quasi negro ; meo periculo, niggard, 

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and I wash my hands of you* ; that was the word he spoke ; 
and she answered, and said, ‘And mayn’t I send the beds 
and blankets,’ said she, ‘and what I can, by the cars, out 
of the way of the creditors, to Clonbrony Castle; and 
won’t you let me hide there from the shame, till the 
bustle’s over?’ — ‘You may do that,’ says he, ‘for what I 
care; but remember,’ says he, ‘that I’ve the first claim to 
them goods ’ ; and that’s all he would grant. So they are 
coming down all o’ Monday — them are her bandboxes 
and all — to settle it ; and faith it was a pity of her! to hear 
her sobbing, and to see her own brother speak and look so 
hard! and she a lady.” 

‘‘Sure she’s not a lady born, no more than himself,” 
said Larry; ‘‘but that’s no excuse for him. His heart’s 
as hard as that stone,” said Larry; ‘‘and my own people 
knew that long ago, and now his own know it ; and what 
right have we to complain, since he’s as bad to his own 
flesh and blood as to us? ” 

With this consolation, and with a ‘‘God speed you,” 
given to the carman, Larry was driving off ; but the car- 
man called to him, and pointed to a house, at the corner 
of which, on a high pole, was swinging an iron sign of 
three horse-shoes, set in a crooked frame, and at the win- 
dow hung an empty bottle, proclaiming whisky within. 

‘‘Well, I don’t care if I do,” said Larry; ‘‘for I’ve no 
other comfort left me in life now. I beg your honour’s 
pardon, sir, for a minute,” added he, throwing the reins 
into the carriage to Lord Colambre, as he leaped down. 
All remonstrance and power of lungs to reclaim him vain ! 
He darted into the whisky-house with the carman — reap- 
peared before Lord Colambre could accomplish getting 
out, remounted his seat, and, taking the reins, ‘‘I thank 
your honour, ’ ’ said he ; ‘ ‘ and I ’ll bring you into Clonbrony 
before it’s pitch-dark yet, though it’s nightfall, and that’s 
four good miles, but ‘a spur in the head is worth two in 
the heel.’” 

Larry, to demonstrate the truth of his favourite axiom, 
drove off at such a furious rate over great stones left in the 
middle of the road by carmen, who had been driving in the 

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gudgeons of their axle-trees to hinder them from lacing,* 
that Lord Colambre thought life and limb in imminent 
danger; and feeling that at all events the jolting and 
bumping was past endurance, he had recourse to Larry’s 
shoulder, and shook and pulled, and called to him to go 
slower, but in vain ; at last the wheel struck full against a 
heap of stones at a turn of the road, the wooden linch-pin 
came off, and the chaise was overset : Lord Colambre was 
a little bruised, but glad to escape without fractured bones. 

“I beg your honour’s pardon,” said Larry, completely 
sobered; “I’m as glad as the best pair of boots ever I see, 
to see your honour nothing the worse for it. It was the 
linch-pin, and them barrows of loose stones, that ought to 
be fined anyway, if there was any justice in the country.” 

“The pole is broke; how are we to get on? ” said Lord 
Colambre. 

“Murder! murder! — and no smith nearer than Clon- 
brony ; nor rope even. It’s a folly to talk, we can’t get to 
Clonbrony, nor stir a step backward or forward the night.” 

“What, then, do you mean to leave me all night in the 
middle of the road?” cried Lord Colambre, quite exas- 
perated. 

“Is it me! please your honour? I would not use any 
jantleman so ill, barring I could do no other,” replied the 
postillion, coolly; then, leaping across the ditch, or, as he 
called it, gripe oi the ditch, he scrambled up, and while 
he was scrambling, said, “If your honour will lend me your 
hand till I pull you up the back of the ditch, the horses 
will stand while we go. I’ll find you as pretty a lodging 
for the night, with a widow of a brother of my shister’s 
husband that was, as ever you slept in your life ; for old 
Nick or St. Dennis has not found ’em out yet; and your 
honour will be, no compare, snugger than the inn at Clon- 
brony, which has no roof, the devil a stick. But where 
will I get your honour’s hand; for it’s coming on so dark, 
I can’t see rightly. There, you’re up now safe. Yonder 
candle’s the house.” 

“Go and ask whether they can give us a night’s lodging.” 

* Opening ; perhaps from lacker ^ to loosen. 

i6o 


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“Is it ask f when I see the light ! — Sure they’d be proud 
to give the traveller all the beds in the house, let alone 
one. Take care of the potato furrows, that’s all, and fol- 
low me straight. I’ll go on to meet the dog, who knows 
me and might be strange to your honour.’’ 

“Kindly welcome,’’ were the first words Lord Colambre 
heard when he approached the cottage; and “kindly wel- 
come’’ was in the sound of the voice and in the countenance 
of the old woman who came out, shading her rush-candle 
from the wind, and holding it so as to light the path. 
When he entered the cottage, he saw a cheerful fire and a 
neat pretty young woman making it blaze : she curtsied, 
put her spinning-wheel out of the way, set a stool by the 
fire for the stranger, and repeating, in a very low tone of 
voice, “Kindly welcome, sir,’’ retired. 

“Put down some eggs, dear, there’s plenty in the bowl,” 
said the old woman, calling to her; “I’ll do the bacon. 
Was not we lucky to be up? — :The boy’s gone to bed, but 
waken him,’’ said she, turning to the postillion ; “and he’ll 
help you with the chay, and put your horses in the bier 
for the night.’’ 

No ; Larry chose to go on to Clonbrony with the horses, 
that he might get the chaise mended betimes for his 
honour. The table was set ; clean trenchers, hot potatoes, 
milk, eggs, bacon, and “kindly welcome to all.’’ 

“Set the salt, dear; and the butter, love; where’s your 
head, Grace, dear? ’’ 

“Grace! ’’ repeated Lord Colambre, looking up; and, to 
apologise for his involuntary exclamation, he added, “Is 
Grace a common name in Ireland? ’’ 

“I can’t say, plase your honour, but it was give her by 
Lady Clonbrony, from a niece of her own that was her 
foster-sister, God bless her ! and a very kind lady she was 
to us and to all when she was living in it ; but those times 
are gone past,’’ said the old woman, with a sigh. The 
young woman sighed too ; and, sitting down by the fire, 
began to count the notches in a little bit of stick, which 
she held in her hand; and, after she had counted them, 
sighed again. 


XI 


i6i 


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**But don’t be sighing, Grace, now,” said the old wo- 
man; “sighs is bad sauce for the traveller’s supper; and 
we won’t be troubling him with more,” added she, turning 
to Lord Colambre with a smile. 

“Is your egg done to your liking? ” 

“Perfectly, thank you.” 

“Then I wish it was a chicken for your sake, which it 
should have been, and roast too, had we time. I wish I 
could see you eat another egg.” 

“No more, thank you, my good lady; I never ate a 
better supper, nor received a more hospitable welcome.” 

“Oh, the welcome is all we have to offer.” 

“May I ask what that is? ” said Lord Colambre, looking 
at the notched stick, which the young woman held in her 
hand, and on which her eyes were still fixed. 

“It’s a plase your honour. Oh, you’re a foreigner; 
— it’s the way the labourers do keep the account of the 
day’s work with the overseer, the bailiff; a notch for every 
day the bailiff makes on his stick, and the labourer the like 
on his stick, to tally ; and when we come to make up the 
account, it’s by the notches we go. And there’s been a 
mistake, and is a dispute here between our boy and the 
overseer; and she was counting the boy’s tally, that’s in 
bed, tired, for in troth he’s overworked.” 

“Would you want anything more from me, mother?” 
said the girl, rising and turning her head away. 

“No, child; get away, for your heart’s full.” 

She went instantly. 

“Is the boy her brother? ” said Lord Colambre. 

“No; he’s her bachelor,” said the old woman, lowering 
her voice. 

“Her bachelor?” 

“That is, her sweetheart: for she is not my daughter, 
though you heard her call me mother. The boy’s my 
son ; but I am afeard they must give it up ; for they’re too 
poor, and the times is hard, and the agent’s harder than 
the times; there’s two of them, the under and the upper; 
and they grind the substance of one between them, and 
then blow one away like chaff : but we’ll not be talking 

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of that to spoil your honour’s night’s rest. The room’s 
ready, and here’s the rushlight.” 

She showed him into a very small but neat room. 
“What a comfortable-looking bed! ” said Lord Colambre. 

‘‘Ah, these red check curtains,” said she, letting them 
down; ‘‘these have lasted well; they were give me by a 
good friend, now far away, over the seas — my Lady;Clon- 
brony ; and made by the prettiest hands ever you see, her 
niece’s. Miss Grace Nugent’s, and she a little child that 
time; sweet love! all gone!” 

The old woman wiped a tear from her eye, and Lord 
Colambre did what he could to appear indifferent. She 
set down the candle, and left the room ; Lord Colambre 
went to bed, but he lay awake, ‘‘revolving sweet and bitter 
thoughts.” 


CHAPTER XI 

T he kettle was on the fire, tea-things set, everything 
prepared for her guest by the hospitable hostess, 
who, thinking the gentleman would take tea to his 
breakfast, had sent off a gossoon by the first light to Clon- 
brony, for an ounce of tea, a quarter of sugary and a loaf 
of white bread; and there was on the little table good 
cream, milk, butter, eggs — all the promise of an excellent 
breakfast. It was a fresh morning, and there was a pleas- 
ant fire on the hearth, neatly swept up. The old woman 
was sitting in her chimney corner, behind a little skreen of 
whitewashed wall, built out into the room, for the purpose 
of keeping those who sat at the fire from the blast of the 
door. There was a loophole in this wall, to let the light 
in, just at the height of a person’s head, who was sitting 
near the chimney. The rays of the morning sun now came 
through it, shining across the face of the old woman, as 
she sat knitting; Lord Colambre thought he had seldom 
seen a more agreeable countenance, intelligent eyes, benev- 
olent smile, a natural expression of cheerfulness, subdued 
by age and misfortune. 

‘‘A good morrow to you kindly, sir, and I hope you 
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got the night well? — A fine day for us this Sunday morn- 
ing; my Grace is gone to early prayers, so your honour 
will be content with an old woman to make your breakfast. 
Oh, let me put in plenty, or it will never be good ; and if 
your honour takes stir-about, an old hand will engage to 
make that to your liking, anyway ; for, by great happiness, 
we have what will just answer for you of the nicest meal 
the miller made my Grace a compliment of, last time she 
went to the mill.” 

Lord Colambre observed, that this miller had good taste ; 
and his lordship paid some compliment to Grace’s beauty, 
which the old woman received with a smile, but turned off 
the conversation. “Then,” said she, looking out of the 
window, “is not that there a nice little garden the boy dug 
for her and me, at his breakfast and dinner hours? Ah! 
he's a good boy, and a good warrant to work; and the 
good son desarves the good wife, and it’s he that will make 
the good husband ; and with my goodwill he, and no other, 
shall get her, and with her goodwill the same ; and I bid 
’em keep up their heart, and hope the best, for there’s no 
use in fearing the worst till it comes.” 

Lord Colambre wished very much to know the worst. 

“If you would not think a stranger impertinent for ask- 
ing,” said he, “and if it would not be painful to you to 
explain.” 

“Oh, impertinent, your honour! it’s very kind — and, 
sure, none’s a stranger to one’s heart, that feels for one. 
And for myself, I can talk of my troubles without thinking 
of them. So, I’ll tell you all — if the worst comes to the 
worst — all that is, is, that we must quit, and give up this 
little snug place, and house, and farm, and all, to the agent 
— which would be hard on us, and me a widow, when my 
husband did all that is done to the land; and if your 
honour was a judge, you could see, if you stepped out, 
there has been a deal done, and built the house, and all— 
but it plased Heaven to take him. Well, he was too good 
for this world, and I’m satisfied— I’m not saying a word 
again’ that — I trust we shall meet in heaven, and be 
happy, surely. And, meantime, here’s my boy, that will 

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make me as happy as ever widow was on earth — if the 
agent will let him. And I can’t think the agent, though 
they that know him best call him old Nick, would be so 
wicked to take from us that which he never gave us. The 
good lord himself granted us the lase; the life’s dropped, 
and the years is out ; but we had a promise of renewal in 
writing from the landlord. God bless him ! if he was not 
away, he’d be a good gentleman, and we’d be happy and 
safe.” 

“But if you have a promise in writing of a renewal, 
surely you are safe, whether your landlord is absent or 
present? ” 

“Ah, no! that makes a great differ ^ when there’s no eye 
or hand over the agent. I would not wish to speak or 
think ill of him or any man ; but was he an angel, he could 
not know to do the tenantry justice, the way he is living 
always in Dublin, and coming down to the country only 
the receiving days, to make a sweep among us, and gather 
up the rents in a hurry, and he in such haste back to town 
— can just stay to count over our money, and give the re- 
ceipts. Happy for us, if we get that same! — but can’t 
expect he should have time to see or hear us, or mind our 
improvements, any more than listen to our complaints! 
Oh, there’s great excuse for the gentleman, if that was any 
comfort for us,” added she, smiling. 

“But, if he does not live amongst you himself, has not 
he some under-agent, who lives in the country?” said 
Lord Colambre. 

“He has so.” 

“And he should know your concerns: does he mind 
them? ” 

“He should know — he should know better; but as to 
minding our concerns, your honour knows,” continued 
she, smiling again, “every one in this world must mind 
their own concerns; and it would be a good world, if it 
was even so. There’s a great deal in all things, that don’t 
appear at first sight. Mr. Dennis wanted Grace for a wife 
for his bailiff, but she would not have him; and Mr. 
Dennis was very sweet to her himself — but Grace is rather 

165 


THE ABSENTEE 


high with him as proper, and he has a grudge agam us 
ever since. Yet, indeed, there,'' added she, after another 
pause, “as you say, I think we are safe; for we have that 
memorandum in writing, with a pencil, given under his own 
hand, on the back of the lase^ to me, by the same token 
when my good lord had his foot on the step of the coach, 
going away ; and I’ll never forget the smile of her that got 
that good turn done for me. Miss Grace. And just when 
she was going to England and London, and, young as she 
was, to have the thought to stop and turn to the likes of 
me ! Oh, then, if you could see her, and know her, as I 
did! That was the comforting angel upon earth — look 
and voice, and heart and all ! Oh, that she was here pre- 
sent, this minute! — But did you scald yourself?" said the 
widow to Lord Colambre. “Sure you must have scalded 
yourself ; for you poured the kettle straight over your 
hand, and it boiling ! — O deear ! to think of so young a 
gentleman's hand shaking so like my own." 

Luckily, to prevent her pursuing her observations from 
the hand to the face, which might have betrayed more 
than Lord Colambre wished she should know, her own 
Grace came in at this instant. 

“There it's for you, safe, mother dear — the lase ! " said 
Grace, throwing a packet into her lap. The old woman 
lifted up her hands to heaven, with the lease between 
them. — “Thanks be to Heaven!" Grace passed on, and 
sunk down on the first seat she could reach. Her face 
flushed, and, looking much fatigued, she loosened the 
strings of her bonnet and cloak — “Then, I'm tired"; 
but, recollecting herself, she rose, and curtsied to the 
gentleman. 

“What tired ye, dear?" 

“Why, after prayers, we had to go — for the agent was 
not at prayers, nor at home for us, when we called — we 
had to go all the way up to the castle; and there, by great 
good luck, we found Mr. Nick Garraghty himself, come 
from Dublin, and the lase in his hands; and he sealed it 
up that way, and handed it to me very civil. I never saw 
him so good — though he offered me a glass of spirits, 

i66 


THE ABSENTEE 


which was not manners to a decent young woman, in a 
morning — as Brian noticed after. Brian would not take 
any either, nor never does. We met Mr. Dennis and the 
driver coming home ; and he says, the rent must be paid 
to-morrow, or, instead of renewing, he’ll seize and sell all. 
Mother dear, I would have dropped with the walk, but for 
Brian’s arm.” — “It’s a wonder, dear, what makes you so 
weak, that used to be so strong.” — “But if we can sell the 
cow for anything at all to Mr. Dennis, since his eye is set 
upon her, better let him have her, mother dear; and that 
and my yarn, which Mrs. Garraghty says she’ll allow me 
for, will make up the rent — and Brian need not talk of 
America. But it must be in golden guineas, the agent 
will take the rent no other way; and you won’t get a 
guinea for less than five shillings. Well, even so, it’s easy 
selling my new gown to one that covets it, and that will 
give me in exchange the price of the gold; or, suppose 
that would not do, add this cloak, — it’s handsome, and I 
know a friend would be glad to take it, and I’d part it as 
ready as look at it — Anything at all, sure, rather than that 
he should be forced to talk of emigrating; or, oh, worse 
again, listing for the bounty — to save us from the cant or 
the jail, by going to the hospital, or his grave, maybe — 
Oh, mother! ” 

“Oh, child! This is what makes you weak, fretting. 
Don’t be that way. Sure here’s the lase, and that’s good 
comfort ; and the soldiers will be gone out of Clonbrony 
to-morrow, and then that’s off your mind. And as to 
America, it’s only talk — I won’t let him, he’s dutiful; and 
would sooner sell my dresser and down to my bed, dear, 
than see you sell anything of yours, love. Promise me 
you won’t. Why didn’t Brian come home all the way with 
you, Grace?” 

“He would have seen me home,” said Grace, “only 
that he went up a piece of the mountain for some stones 
or ore for the gentleman — for he had the manners to think 
of him this morning, though, shame for me, I had not, 
when I come in, or I would not have told you all this, and 
he himself by. See, there he is, mother.” 

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Brian came in very hot, out of breath, with his hat full 
of stones. “Good morrow to your honour. I was in bed 
last night; and sorry they did not call me up to be of 
sarvice. Larry was telling us, this morning, your honour’s 
from Wales, and looking for mines in Ireland, and I heard 
talk that there was one on our mountain — maybe, you’d 
be curous to see, and so I brought the best I could, but I’m 
no judge.’’ 

“Nor I, neither,” thought Lord Colambre; but he 
thanked the young man, and determined to avail himself 
of Larry’s misconception or false report; examined the 
stones very gravely, and said, “This promises well. Lapis 
caliminaris, schist, plum-pudding stone, rhomboidal, crys- 
tal, blend, garrawachy,” and all the strange names he could 
think of, jumbling them together at a venture. 

“The lase I — Is it?” cried the young man, with joy 
sparkling in his eyes, as his mother held up the packet. 
“Then all’s safe! and he’s an honest man, and shame on 
me, that could suspect he meant us wrong. Lend me the 
papers.” 

He cracked the seals, and taking off the cover, — “It’s 
the lase, sure enough. Shame on me ! — But stay, where’s 
the memorandum? ” 

“It’s there, sure,” said his mother, “where my lord’s 
pencil writ it. I don’t read. — Grace, dear, look.” 

The young man put it into her hands, and stood without 
power to utter a syllable. 

“It’s not here! It’s gone! — no sign of it.” 

“Gracious Heaven! that can’t be,” said the old woman, 
putting on her spectacles; “let me see — I remember the 
very spot.” 

“It’s taken away — it’s rubbed clean out! — Oh, wasn’t I 
a fool? But who could have thought he’d be the villain ! ” 
The young man seemed neither to see nor hear; but to 
be absorbed in thought. 

Grace, with her eyes fixed upon him, grew as pale as 
death — “He’ll go — he’s gone.” 

“She’s gone!” cried Lord Colambre, and the mother 
just caught her in her arms as she was falling. 

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THE ABSENTEE 


“The chaise is ready, your honour,” said Larry, 
coming into the room. “Death! what’s here? ” 

“Air! — she’s coming to,” said the young man — “Take a 
drop of water, my own Grace.” 

“Young man, I promise you,” cried Lord Colambre 
(speaking in the tone of a master), striking the young 
man’s shoulder, who was kneeling at Grace feet; but recol- 
lecting and restraining himself, he added, in a quiet voice 
— “I promise you I shall never forget the hospitality I 
have received in this house, and I am sorry to be obliged 
to leave you in distress.” 

These words uttered with difficulty, he hurried out of 
the house, and into his carriage. “Go back to them,” 
said he to the postillion; “go back and ask whether, if I 
should stay a day or two longer in this country, they 
would let me return at night and lodge with them. And 
here, man, stay, take this,” putting money into his hands, 
“for the good woman of the house.” 

The postillion went in, and returned. 

“She won’t at all — I knew she would not.” 

“Well, I am obliged to her for the night’s lodging she 
did give me; I have no right to expect more.” 

“What is it? — Sure she bid me tell you — ‘and welcome 
to the lodging; for,’ said she, ‘he is a kind-hearted gentle- 
man’ ; but here’s the money; it’s that I was telling you 
she would not have at all.” 

“Thank you. Now, my good friend Larry, drive me to 
Clonbrony, and do not say another word, for I’m not in a 
talking humour.” 

Larry nodded, mounted, and drove to Clonbrony. 
Clonbrony was now a melancholy scene. The houses, 
which had been built in a better style of architecture than 
usual, were in a ruinous condition ; the dashing was off the 
walls, no glass in the windows, and many of the roofs with- 
out slates. For the stillness of the place Lord Colambre 
in some measure accounted, by considering that it was 
Sunday ; therefore, of course, all the shops were shut up, 
and all the people at prayers. He alighted at the inn, 
which completely answered Larry’s representation of it. 

169 


THE ABSENTEE 


Nobody to be seen but a drunken waiter, who, as well as 
he could articulate, informed Lord Colambre that *‘his 
mistress was in her bed since Thursday-was-a-week ; the 
hostler at the wash-woman Sy and the cook at second 
prayers/' 

Lord Colambre walked to the church, but the church 
gate was locked and broken — a calf, two pigs, and an ass, 
in the churchyard; and several boys (with more of skin 
apparent than clothes) were playing at hustlecap upon a* 
tombstone, which, upon nearer observation, he saw was 
the monument of his own family. One of the boys came 
to the gate, and told Lord Colambre “there was no use in 
going into the church, because there was no church there ; 
nor had not been this twelve-month ; because there was no 
curate; and the parson was away always, since the lord 
was at home — that is, was not at home — he nor the family." 

Lord Colambre returned to the inn, where, after waiting 
a considerable time, he gave up the point — he could not 
get any dinner — and in the evening he walked out again 
into the town. He found several ale-houses, however, 
open, which were full of people ; all of them as busy and 
as noisy as possible. He observed that the interest was 
created by an advertisement of several farms on the Clon- 
brony estate, to be set by Nicholas Garraghty, Esq. He 
could not help smiling at his being witness incognito to 
various schemes for outwitting the agents and defrauding 
the landlord ; but, on a sudden, the scene was changed ; a 
boy ran in, crying out, that “St. Dennis was riding down 
the hill into the town; and, if you would not have the 
license," said the boy, “take care of yourself." 

If you wouldnt have the license f Lord Colambre per- 
ceived, by what followed, meant, ** If you have not a 
licensed Brannagan immediately snatched an untasted 
glass of whisky from a customer’s lips (who cried. Murder !), 
gave it and the bottle he held in his hand to his wife, who 
swallowed the spirits, and ran away with the bottle and 
glass into son;e back hole ; whilst the bystanders laughed, 
saying, “Well thought of, Peggy!" 

“Clear out all of you at the back door, for the love of 
170 


THE ABSENTEE 


heaven, if you wouldn’t be the ruin of me,” said the man 
of the house, setting a ladder to a corner of the shop. 
”Phil, hoist me up the keg to the loft,” added he, running 
up the ladder; “and one of yees step up street, and give 
Rose M’Givney notice, for she’s selling too.” 

The keg was hoisted up ; the ladder removed ; the shop 
cleared of all the customers ; the shutters shut ; the door 
barred; the counter cleaned. “Lift your stones, sir, if 
you plase,” said the wife, as she rubbed the counter, “and 
say nothing of what you seen at all; but that you’re a 
stranger and a traveller seeking a lodging, if you’re ques- 
tioned, or waiting to see Mr. Dennis. There’s no smell 
of whisky in it now, is there, sir? ” 

Lord Colambre could not flatter her so far as to say this 
— he could only hope no one would perceive it. 

“Oh, and if he would, the smell of whisky was nothing,” 
as the wife affirmed, “for it was everywhere in nature, and 
no proof again’ any one, good or bad.” 

“Now St. Dennis may come when he will, or old Nick 
himself!” So she tied up a blue handkerchief over her 
head, and had the toothache, “very bad.” 

Lord Colambre turned to look for the man of the house. 

“He’s safe in bed,” said the wife. 

“In bed! When?” 

“Whilst you turned your head, while I was tying the 
handkerchief over my face. Within the room, look, he is 
snug.” 

And there he was in bed certainly, and his clothes on 
the chest. 

A knock, a loud knock at the door. 

“St. Dennis himself! — Stay, till I unbar the door,” said 
the woman; and, making a great difficulty, she let him in, 
groaning, and saying — 

“We was all done up for the night, plase your honour, 
and myself with the toothache, very bad — And the lodger, 
that’s going to take an egg only, before he’d go into his 
bed. My man’s in it, and asleep long ago.” 

With a magisterial air, though with a look of blank 
disappointment, Mr. Dennis Garraghty walked on, looked 

171 


THE ABSENTEE 


into the room, saw the good man of the house asleep, heard 
him snore, and then, returning, asked Lord Colambre ** who 
he was, and what brought him there? ” 

Our hero said he was from England, and a traveller; 
and now, bolder grown as a geologist, he talked of his 
specimens, and his hopes of finding a mine in the neigh- 
bouring mountains; then adopting, as well as he could, 
the servile tone and abject manner in which he found Mr. 
Dennis was to be addressed, “he hoped he might get en- 
couragement from the gentleman at the head of the estate.’" 

“To bore, is it? — Well, don’t bore me about it. I can’t 
give you any answer now, my good friend; I’m engaged.’’ 

Out he strutted. “Stick to him up the town, if you 
have a mind to get your answer,” whispered the woman. 
Lord Colambre followed, for he wished to see the end of 
this scene. 

“Well, sir, what are you following and sticking to me, 
like my shadow, for? ” said Mr. Dennis, turning suddenly 
upon Lord Colambre. 

His lordship bowed low. “Waiting for my answer, sir, 
when you are at leisure. Or, may I call upon you to- 
morrow? ” 

“You seem to be a civil kind of fellow ; but, as to boring, 
I don’t know — if you undertake it at your own expense. 
I dare say there may be minerals in the ground. Well, 
you may call at the castle to-morrow, and when my 
brother has done with the tenantry. I’ll speak to him for 
you, and we’ll consult together, and see what we think. 
It’s too late to-night. In Ireland, nobody speaks to a 
gentleman about business after dinner — your servant, sir ; 
anybody can show you the way to the castle in the morn- 
ing.” And, pushing by his lordship, he called to a man 
on the other side of the street, who had obviously been 
waiting for him ; he went under a gateway with this man, 
and gave him a bag of guineas. He then called for his 
horse, which was brought to him by a man whom Colam- 
bre had heard declaring that he would bid for the land that 
was advertised; whilst another, who had the same inten- 
tions, most respectfully held St. Dennis’s stirrup, whilst 

172 


THE ABSENTEE 


he mounted without thanking either of these men. St. 
Dennis clapped spurs to his steed, and rode away. No 
thanks, indeed, were deserved; for the moment he was 
out of hearing, both cursed him after the manner of their 
country. 

“Bad luck go with you, then ! — And may you break your 
neck before you get home, if it was not for the lase Tm to 
get, and that’s paid for.” 

Lord Colambre followed the crowd into a public-house, 
where a new scene presented itself to his view. 

The man to whom St. Dennis gave the bag of gold was 
now selling this very gold to the tenants, who were to pay 
their rent next day at the castle. 

The agent would take nothing but gold. The same 
guineas were bought and sold several times over, to the 
great profit of the agent and loss of the poor tenants ; for, 
as the rents were paid, the guineas were resold to another 
set, and the remittances made through bankers to the land- 
lord ; who, as the poor man who explained the transaction 
to Lord Colambre expressed it, “gained nothing by the 
business, bad or good, but the ill-will of the tenantry.” 

The higgling for the price of the gold ; the time lost in 
disputing about the goodness of the notes, among some 
poor tenants, who could not read or write, and who were 
at the mercy of the man with the bag in his hand; the 
vexation, the useless harassing of all who were obliged to 
submit ultimately — Lord Colambre saw; and all this time 
he endured the smell of tobacco and whisky, and of the 
sound of various brogues, the din of men wrangling, brawl- 
ing, threatening, whining, drawling, cajoling, cursing, and 
every variety of wretchedness. 

“And is this my father’s town of Clonbrony?” thought 
Lord Colambre. “Is this Ireland? — No, it is not Ireland. 
Let me not, like most of those who forsake their native 
country, traduce it. Let me not, even to my own mind, 
commit the injustice of taking a speck for the whole. 
What I have just seen is the picture only of that to which 
an Irish estate and Irish tenantry may be degraded in the 
absence of those whose duty and interest it is to reside in 

173 


THE ABSENTEE 


Ireland to uphold justice by example and authority; but 
who, neglecting this duty, commit power to bad hands and 
bad hearts — abandon their tenantry to oppression, and 
their property to ruin." 

It was now fine moonlight, and Lord Colambre met with 
a boy, who said he could show him a short way across the 
fields to the widow O’ Neill’s cottage. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A ll were asleep at the cottage, when Lord Colambre 
arrived, except the widow, who was sitting up, wait- 
ing for him ; and who had brought her dog into the 
house, that he might not fly at him, or bark at his return. 
She had a roast chicken ready for her guest, and it was — 
but this she never told him — the only chicken she had left ; 
all the others had been sent with the duty-fowl^ as a pre- 
sent to the under-agent’s lady. While he was eating his 
supper, which he ate with the better appetite, as he had 
had no dinner, the good woman took down from the shelf 
a pocket-book, which she gave him: "Is not that your 
book?" said she. "My boy Brian found it after you in 
the potato furrow, where you dropped it." 

"Thank you," said Lord Colambre; "there are bank 
notes in it, which I could not afford to lose." 

"Are there?" said she; "he never opened it — nor I." 
Then, in answer to his inquiries about Grace and the 
young man, the widow answered, "They are all in heart 
now, I thank ye kindly, sir, for asking; they’ll sleep easy 
to-night anyway, and I’m in great spirits for them and 
myself — for all’s smooth now. After we parted you, Brian 
saw Mr. Dennis himself about the lase and memorandum, 
which he never denied, but knew nothing about. ‘But, be 
that as it may,’ says he, ‘you’re improving tenants, and 
I’m confident my brother will consider ye; so what you’ll 
do is, you’ll give up the possession to-morrow to myself, 
that will call for it by cockcrow, just for form’s sake; and 
then go up to the castle with the new lase ready drawn, in 

174 


THE ABSENTEE 


your hand, and if all’s paid off clear of the rent, and all 
that’s due, you’ll get the new lase signed ; i’ll promise you 
that upon the word and honour of a gentleman.’ And 
there’s no going beyond that, you know, sir. So my boy 
came home as light as a feather, and as gay as a lark, to 
bring us the good news ; only he was afraid we might not 
make up the rent, guineas and all ; and because he could 
not get paid for the work he done, on account of the mis- 
take in the overseer’s tally, I sold the cow to a neighbour 
— dog-cheap; but needs must, as they say, when old Nick 
drives,'' said the widow, smiling. “Well, still it was but 
paper we got for the cow ; then that must be gold before 
the agent would take or touch it — so I was laying out to 
sell the dresser, and had taken the plates and cups, and 
little things off it, and my boy was lifting it out with Andy 
the carpenter, that was agreeing for it, when in comes 
Grace, all rosy, and out of breath — it’s a wonder I minded 
her run out, and not missed her. ‘Mother,’ says she, 
‘here’s the gold for you! don’t be stirring your dresser.’ 
— ‘And where’s your gown and cloak, Grace? ’ says I. But 
I beg your pardon, sir; maybe I’m tiring you? ’’ 

Lord Colambre encouraged her to go on. 

“ ‘Where’s your gown and cloak, Grace? ’ says I. — 
‘Gone,’ says she. ‘The cloak was too warm and heavy, 
and I don’t doubt, mother, but it was that helped to make 
me faint this morning. And as to the gown, sure I’ve a 
very nice one here, that you spun for me yourself, mother; 
and that I prize above all the gowns ever came out of a 
loom ; and that Brian said become me to his fancy above 
any gown ever he see me wear ; and what could I wish for 
more? ’ Now I’d a mind to scold her for going to sejl the 
gown unknown’st to me, but I don’t know how it was, I 
couldn’t scold her just then, so kissed her, and Brian the 
same, and that was what no man ever did before. And 
she had a mind to be angry with him, but could not, nor 
ought not, says I ; Tor he’s as good as your husband now, 
Grace; and no man can part yees now,’ says I, putting 
their hands together. Well, I never saw her look so 
pretty; nor there was not a happier boy that minute on 

175 


THE ABSENTEE 


God’s earth than my son, nor a happier mother than my- 
self ; and I thanked God that had given them to me ; and 
down they both fell on their knees for my blessing, little 
worth as it was; and my heart’s blessing they had, and I 
laid my hands upon them. ‘It’s the priest you must get 
to do this for you to-morrow,’ says I. And Brian just 
held up the ring, to show me all was ready on his part, but 
could not speak. ‘Then there’s no America any more! ’ 
said Grace, low to me, and her heart was on her lips ; but 
the colour came and went, and I was afeard she’d have 
swooned again, but not for sorrow, so I carried her off. 
Well, if she was not my own — but she is not my own born, 
so I may say it — there never was a better girl, nor a more 
kind-hearted, nor generous; never thinking anything she 
could do, or give, too much for them she loved, and any- 
thing at all would do for herself ; the sweetest natured and 
tempered both, and always was, from this high ; the bond 
that held all together, and joy of the house.” 

‘‘Just like her namesake,” cried Lord Colambre. 

‘‘Plase your honour? ” 

‘‘Is not it late? ” said Lord Colambre, stretching himself 
and gaping; ‘‘I’ve walked a great way to-day.” 

The old woman lighted his rushlight, showed him to his 
red check bed, and wished him a very good night; not 
without some slight sentiment of displeasure at his gaping 
thus at the panegyric on her darling Grace. Before she 
left the room, however, her short-lived resentment van- 
ished, upon his saying that he hoped, with her permission, 
to be present at the wedding of the young couple. 

Early in the morning Brian went to the priest, to ask his 
reverence when it would be convenient to marry him ; and, 
whilst he was gone, Mr. Dennis Garraghty came to the 
cottage, to receive the rent and possession. The rent was 
ready, in gold, and counted into his hand. 

‘‘No occasion for a receipt; for a new lase is a receipt in 
full for everything.” 

‘‘Very well, sir,” said the widow; ‘‘I know nothing of 
law. You know best — whatever you direct — for you are 
acting as a friend to us now. My son got the attorney to 

176 


THE ABSENTEE 


draw the pair of new lases yesterday, and here they are 
ready, all to signing." 

Mr. Dennis said his brother must settle that part of the 
business, and that they must carry them up to the castle ; 
"but first give me the possession." 

Then, as he instructed her, she gave up the key of the 
door to him, and a bit of the thatch of the house ; and he 
raked out the fire, and said every living creature must go 
out. "It’s only form of law," said he. 

"And must my lodger get up and turn out, sir?" said 
she. 

"He must turn out, to be sure — not a living soul must 
be left in it, or it’s no legal possession properly. Who is 
your lodger? " 

On Lord Colambre’s appearing, Mr. Dennis showed 
some surprise, and said, "I thought you were lodging at 
Brannagan’s; are not you the man who spoke to me at his 
house about the gold mines? 

"No, sir, he never lodged at Brannagan’s," said the 
widow. 

"Yes, sir, I am the person who spoke to you about 
the gold mines at Brannagan’s; but I did not like to 
lodge " 

"Well, no matter where you liked to lodge; you must 
walk out of this lodging now, if you please, my good 
friend." 

So Mr. Dennis pushed his lordship out by the shoulders, 
repeating, as the widow turned back and looked with some 
surprise and alarm, "only for form’s sake, only for form’s 
sake!" then locking the door, took the key, and put it 
into his pocket. The widow held out her hand for it: 
"The form’s gone through now, sir, is not it? Be plased 
to let us in again." 

"When the new lease is signed. I’ll give you possession 
again; but not till then — for that’s the law. So make 
away with you to the castle; and mind," added he, wink- 
ing slily, — "mind you take sealing-money with you, and 
something to buy gloves." 

"Oh, where will I find all that? " said the widow. 

la 1 77 


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“I have it, mother; don’t fret,” said Grace. “I have 
it — the price of — what I can want.* So let us go off to the 
castle without delay. Brian will meet us on the road, you 
know.” 

They set off for Clonbrony Castle, Lord Colambre ac- 
companying them. Brian met them on the road. ‘ ‘ Father 
Tom is ready, dear mother; bring her in, and he’ll marry 
us. I’m not my own man till she’s mine. Who knows 
what may happen?” 

‘‘Who knows? that’s true,” said the widow. 

“Better go to the castle first,” said Grace. 

“And keep the priest waiting! You can’t use his rever- 
ence so,” said Brian. 

So she let him lead her into the priest’s house, and she 
did not make any of the awkward draggings back, or 
ridiculous scenes of grimace sometimes exhibited on these 
occasions ; but blushing rosy red, yet with more self-pos- 
session than could have been expected from her timid 
nature, she gave her hand to the man she loved, and listened 
with attentive devotion to the holy ceremony. 

“Ah ! ” thought Lord Colambre, whilst he congratulated 
the bride, “shall I ever be as happy as these poor people 
are at this moment?” He longed to make them some 
little present, but all he could venture at this moment was 
to pay the priest’s dues. 

The priest positively refused to take anything. “They 
are the best couple in my parish,” said he; “and I’ll take 
nothing, sir, from you, a stranger and my guest.” 

“Now, come what will, I’m a match for it. No trouble 
can touch me,” said Brian. 

“Oh, don’t be bragging,” said the widow. 

“Whatever trouble God sends. He has given one now 
will help to bear it, and sure I may be thankful,” said 
Grace. 

“Such good hearts must be happy — shall be happy!” 
said Lord Colambre. 

“Oh, you’re very kind,” said the widow, smiling; “and 
I wouldn’t doubt you, if you had the power. I hope, 
* What I can do without. 

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then, the agent will give you encouragement about them 
mines, that we may keep you among us.” 

”I am determined to settle among you, warm-hearted, 
generous people! ” cried Lord Colambre, ‘'whether the 
agent gives me encouragement or not,” added he. 

It was a long walk to Clonbrony Castle ; the old woman, 
as she said herself, would not have been able for it, but for 
a lift given to her by a friendly carman, whom they met 
on the road with an empty car. This carman was Fin- 
nucan, who dissipated Lord Colambre’s fears of meeting 
and being recognised by Mrs. Raffarty; for he, in answer 
to the question of, “Who is at the castle?” replied, “Mrs. 
Raffarty will be in it afore night; but she’s on the road 
still. There’s none but old Nick in it yet; and he’s more 
of a neger than ever ; for think, that he would not pay me 
a farthing for the carriage of his shisters boxes and band- 
boxes down. If you’re going to have any dealings with 
him, God grant ye a safe deliverance! ” 

“Amen! ” said the widow, and her son and daughter. 

Lord Colambre’s attention was now engaged by the view 
of the castle and park of Clonbrony. He had not seen it 
since he was six years old. Some faint reminiscence from 
his childhood made him feel or fancy that he knew the 
place. It was a fine castle, spacious park ; but all about 
it, from the broken piers at the great entrance, to the 
mossy gravel and loose steps at the hall-door, had an air 
of desertion and melancholy. Walks overgrown, shrub-, 
beries wild, plantations run up into bare poles ; fine trees/ 
cut down, and lying on the gravel in lots to be sold. A 
hill that had been covered with an oak wood, in which, in 
his childhood, our hero used to play, and which he called 
the black forest, was gone; nothing to be seen but the 
white stumps of the trees, for it had been freshly cut down, 
to make up the last remittances. — “And how it went, when 
sold ! — but no matter,” said Finnucan; “it’s all alike. — It’s 
the back way into the yard. I’ll take you, I suppose.” 

And such a yard ! “But it’s no matter,” repeated Lord 
Colambre to himself; “it’s all alike.” 

In the kitchen a great dinner was dressing for Mr. 

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Garraghty’s friends, who were to make merry with him 
when the business of the day was over. 

“Where's the keys of the cellar, till I get out the claret 
for after dinner," says one; “and the wine for the cook — 
sure there’s venison," cries another. — “Venison! — That’s 
the way my lord’s deer goes," says a third, laughing. — 
“Ay, sure! and very proper, when he’s not here to eat 
’em." — “Keep your nose out of the kitchen, young man, 
if you plase^'' said the agent’s cook, shutting the door in 
Lord Colambre’s face. “There’s the way to the office, if 
you’ve money to pay, up the back stairs." 

“No; up the grand staircase they must — Mr. Garraghty 
ordered," said the footman; “because the office is damp 
for him, and it’s not there he’ll see anybody to-day ; but in 
my lady’s dressing-room.’’ 

So up the grand staircase they went, and through the 
magnificent apartments, hung with pictures of great value, 
spoiling with damp. “Then, isn’t it a pity to see them? 
There’s my lady, and all spoiling,’’ said the widow. 

Lord Colambre stopped before a portrait of Miss Nu- 
gent. — “Shamefully damaged!" cried he. “Pass on, or 
let me pass, if you plase^'" said one of the tenants; “and 
don’t be stopping the doorway.’’ “I have business more 
nor you with the agent," said the surveyor; “where is 
he?" 

“In the presence-chamber,''' replied another; “where 
should the viceroy be but in the presence-chamber f ’’ 

There was a full levee, and fine smell of greatcoats. — 
“Oh! would you put your hats on the silk cushions? ’’ said 
the widow to some men in the doorway, who were throw- 
ing off their greasy hats on a damask sofa. — “Why not? 
where else?’’ “If the lady was in it, you wouldn’t," said 
she, sighing. — “No, to be sure, I wouldn’t; great news! 
would I make no differ in the presence of old Nick and my 
lady?" said he, in Irish. “Have I no sense or manners, 
good woman, think ye?" added he, as he shook the ink 
out of his pen on the Wilton carpet, when he had finished 
signing his name to a paper on his knee. “You may wait 
long before you get to the speech of the great man," said 

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another, who was working his way through numbers. 
They continued pushing forward, till they came within 
sight of Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, seated in state; and a 
worse countenance, or a more perfect picture of an in- 
solent, petty tyrant in office. Lord Colambre had never 
beheld. 

We forbear all further detail of this levee. ‘*It's all the 
same!'’ as Lord Colambre repeated to himself, on every 
fresh instance of roguery or oppression to which he was 
witness; and, having completely made up his mind on the 
subject, he sat down quietly in the background, waiting 
till it should come to the widow’s turn to be dealt with, for 
he was now interested only to see how she would be 
treated. The room gradually thinned; Mr. Dennis Gar- 
raghty came in, and sat down at the table, to help his 
brother to count the heaps of gold. 

“Oh, Mr. Dennis, Lm glad to see you as kind as your 
promise, meeting me here,” said the widow O’Neill, walk- 
ing up to him; “I’m sure you’ll speak a good word for 
me; here’s the lases — who will I offer this to?’’ said she, 
holding the glove-money and sealing-money ^ — “for I’m 
strange and ashamed.’’ 

“Oh, don’t be ashamed — there’s no strangeness in bring- 
ing money or taking it,’’ said Mr. Nicholas Garraghty, 
holding out his hand. “Is this the proper compliment? ” 

“I hope so, sir; your honour knows best.*’ 

“Very well,’’ slipping it into his private purse. “Now, 
what’s your business? ’’ 

“The lases to sign — the rent’s all paid up.” 

“Leases! Why, woman, is the possession given up?’’ 

“It was, plase your honour; and Mr. Dennis has the 
key of our little place in his pocket.’’ 

“Then I hope he’ll keep it there. Your little place — it’s 
no longer yours; I’ve promised it to the surveyor. You 
don’t think I’m such a fool as to renew to you at this 
rent.” 

“ Mr. Dennis named the rent. But anything your honour 
p lases — anything at all that we can pay.” 

“Oh, it’s out of the question — put it out of your head. 

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No rent you can offer would do, for I’ve promised it to the 
surveyor.” 

“Sir, Mr. Dennis knows my lord gave us his promise in 
writing of a renewal, on the back of the ould lase.'' 

“Produce it.” 

“Here’s the lase, but the promise is rubbed out.” 

“Nonsense ! coming to me with a promise that’s rubbed 
out. Who’ll listen to that in a court of justice, do you 
think?” 

“I don’t know, plase your honour ; but this I’m sure of, 
my lord and Miss Nugent, though but a child at the time, 
God bless her ! who was by when my lord wrote it with his 
pencil, will remember it.” 

“Miss Nugent! what can she know of business? — What 
has she to do with the management of my Lord Clon- 
brony’s estate, pray? ” 

“Management! — no, sir! ” 

“Do you wish to get Miss Nugent turned out of the 
house? ” 

“Oh, God forbid! — how could that be? ” 

“Very easily; if you set about to make her meddle and 
witness in what my lord does not choose.” 

“Well then. I’ll never mention Miss Nugent’s name in 
it at all, if it was ever so with me. But be plased^ sir, to 
write over to my lord, and ask him ; I’m sure he’ll remem- 
ber it.” 

“Write to my lord about such a trifle — trouble him 
about such nonsense! ” 

“I’d be sorry to trouble him. Then take it on my 
word, and believe me, sir ; for I would not tell a lie, nor 
cheat rich or poor, if in my power, for the whole estate, 
nor the whole world: for there’s an eye above.” 

“Cant! nonsense!— Take those leases off the table; I 
never will sign them. Walk off, ye canting hag; it’s an 
imposition — I will never sign them.” 

“You will then, sir,” cried Brian, growing red with in- 
dignation; “for the law shall make you, so it shall; and 
you’d as good have been civil to my mother, whatever you 
did— for I’ll stand by her while I’ve life; and I know she 


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has right, and shall have law. I saw the memorandum 
written before ever it went into your hands, sir, whatever 
became of it after; and will swear to it, too.” 

“Swear away, my good friend ; much your swearing will 
avail in your own case in a court of justice,” continued 
old Nick. 

“And against a gentleman of my brother’s established 
character and property,” said St. Dennis. “What’s your 
mother’s character against a gentleman’s like this? ” 

“Character! take care how you go to that, anyway, sir,” 
cried Brian. 

Grace put her hand before his mouth, to stop him. 

‘ ‘ Grace, dear, I must speak, if I die for it ; sure it’s for 
my mother,” said the young man, struggling forward, 
while his mother held him back; “I must speak.” 

“Oh, he’s ruin’d, I see it,” said Grace, putting her hand 
before her eyes, “and he won’t mind me.” 

“Go on, let him go on, pray, young woman,” said Mr. 
Garraghty, pale with anger and fear, his lips quivering; “I 
shall be happy to take down his words. 

“Write them; and may all the world read it, and wel- 
come! ” 

His mother and wife stopped his mouth by force. 

“Write you, Dennis,” said Mr. Garraghty, giving the 
pen to his brother; for his hand shook so he could not 
form a letter. “Write the very words, and at the top” 
(pointing) ‘ ‘ after warning, with malice prepense. 

“Write, then — mother, Grace — let me,” cried Brian, 
speaking in a smothered voice, as their hands were over 
his mouth. “Write then, that, if you’d either of you a 
character like my mother, you might defy the world ; and 
your word would be as good as your oath.” 

''Oath! mind that, Dennis,” said Mr. Garraghty. 

“Oh, sir! sir! won’t you stop him?” cried Grace, 
turning suddenly to Lord Colambre. 

“Oh dear, dear, if you haven’t lost your feeling for us,” 
cried the widow. 

“Let him speak,” said Lord Colambre, in a tone of 
authority; “let the voice of truth be heard.” 

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Truth / cried St. Dennis, and dropped the pen. 

‘'And who the devil are you, sir?’' said old Nick. 

‘ ‘ Lord Colambre, I protest ! ’ ’ exclaimed a female voice ; 
and Mrs. Raffarty at this instant appeared at the open door. 

“Lord Colambre!” repeated all present, in different 
tones. 

“My lord, I beg pardon,” continued Mrs. Raffarty, ad- 
vancing as if her legs were tied; “had I known you was 
down here, I would not have presumed. I’d better retire ; 
for I see you’re busy.” 

“You’d best; for you’re mad, sister,” said St. Dennis, 
pushing her back; “and we are busy; go to your room, 
and keep quiet, if you can.” 

“First, madam,” said Lord Colambre, going between 
her and the door, “let me beg that you will consider your- 
self as at home in this house, whilst any circumstances 
make it desirable to you. The hospitality you showed me 
you cannot think that I now forget.” 

“Oh, my lord, you’re too good — how few — too kind — 
kinder than my own,” and bursting into tears, she escaped 
out of the room. 

Lord Colambre returned to the party round the table, 
who were in various attitudes of astonishment, and with 
faces of fear, horror, hope, joy, doubt. 

“Distress,” continued his lordship, “however incurred, 
if not by vice, will always find a refuge in this house. I 
speak in my father’s name, for I know I speak his senti- 
ments. But never more shall vice,” said he, darting such 
a look at the brother agents as they felt to the backbone — 
“never more shall vice, shall fraud enter here.” 

He paused, and there was a momentary silence. 

‘ ‘ There spoke the true thing ! and the rael gentleman ; 
my own heart’s satisfied,” said Brian, folding his arms, 
and standing erect. 

“Then so is mine,” said Grace, taking breath, with a 
deep sigh. 

The widow advancing, put on her spectacles, and, look- 
ing up close at Lord Colambre’s face — “Then it’s a wonder 
I didn’t know the family likeness.” 

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Lord Colambre now recollecting that he still wore the 
old greatcoat, threw it off. 

“Oh, bless him! Then now I’d know him anywhere. 
I’m willing to die now, for we’ll all be happy.’’ 

“My lord, since it is so — my lord, may I ask you,’’ said 
Mr. Garraghty, now sufficiently recovered to be able to 
articulate, but scarcely to express his ideas; “if what your 
lordship hinted just now ’’ 

“I hinted nothing, sir; I spoke plainly.’’ 

“I beg pardon, my lord,’’ said old Nick; — “respecting 
vice, was levelled at me; because, if it was, my lord,’’ try- 
ing to stand erect; “let me tell your lordship, if I could 
think it was ’’ 

“If it did not hit you, sir, no matter at whom it was 
levelled.’’ 

“And let me ask, my lord, if I may presume, whether, in 
what you suggested by the word fraud, your lordship had 
any particular meaning?’’ said St. Dennis. 

“A very particular meaning, sir, — feel in your pocket 
for the key of this widow’s house, and deliver it to 
her.” 

“Oh, if that’s all the meaning, with all the pleasure in 
life. I never meant to detain it longer than till the leases 
were signed,” said St. Dennis. 

“And I’m ready to sign the leases this minute,” said the 
brother. 

“Do it, sir, this minute; I have read them; I will be 
answerable to my father.” 

“Oh, as to that, my lord, I have power to sign for your 
father.” He signed the leases; they were duly witnessed 
by Lord Colambre. 

“I deliver this as my act and deed,” said Mr. Garraghty ; 
— “my lord,” continued he, “you see, at the first word 
from you ; and had I known sooner the interest you took 
in the family, there would have been no difficulty ; for I’d 
make it a principle to oblige you, my lord.” 

“Oblige me! ” said Lord Colambre, with disdain. 

“But when gentlemen and noblemen travel incognito, 
and lodge in cabins,” added St. Dennis, with a satanic 

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smile, glancinghis eye on Grace, *'they have good reasons, 
no doubt.” 

“Do not judge my heart by your own, sir,” said Lord 
Colambre, coolly; “no two things in nature can, I trust, 
be more different. My purpose in travelling incognito has 
been fully answered: I was determined to see and judge 
how my father’s estates were managed; and I have seen, 
compared, and judged. I have seen the difference between 
the Clonbrony and the Colambre property; and I shall 
represent what I have seen to my father.” 

“As to that, my lord, if we are to come to that — but I 
trust your lordship will suffer me to explain these matters. 
— Go about your business, my good friends ; you have all 
you want ; — and, my lord, after dinner, when you are cool, 
I hope I shall be able to make you sensible that things 
have been represented to your lordship in a mistaken light ; 
and I flatter myself I shall convince you I have not only 
always acted the part of a friend to the family, but am 
particularly willing to conciliate your lordship’s goodwill,” 
said he, sweeping the rouleaus of gold into a bag; “any 
accommodation in my power, at any time.” 

“I want no accommodation, sir, — were I starving, I 
would accept of none from you. Never can you conciliate 
my goodwill; for you can never deserve it.” 

“If that be the case, my lord, I must conduct myself ac- 
cordingly ; but it’s fair to warn you, before you make any 
representation to my Lord Clonbrony, that if he should 
think of changing his agent, there are accounts to be 
settled between us — that may be a consideration.” 

“No, sir; no consideration — my father never shall be 
the slave of such a paltry consideration.” 

“Oh, very well, my lord ; you know best. If you choose 
to make an assumpsit. I’m sure I shall not object to the 
security. Your lordship will be of age soon, I know — I’m 
sure I’m satisfied — but,” added he with a malicious smile, 
‘ ‘ I rather apprehend you don’t know what you undertake ; 
I only promise that the balance of accounts between us is 
not what can properly be called a paltry consideration.” 

“On that point, perhaps, sir, you and I may differ.” 

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‘‘Very well, my lord, you will follow your own prin- 
ciples, if it suits your convenience.” 

“Whether it does or not, sir, I shall abide by my prin- 
ciples.” 

“Dennis! the letters to the post. — When do you go to 
England, my lord ?” 

“Immediately, sir,” said Lord Colambre; his lordship 
saw new leases from his father to Mr. Dennis Garraghty, 
lying on the table, unsigned. 

“Immediately! ” repeated Messrs. Nicholas and Dennis, 
with an air of dismay. Nicholas got up, looked out of the 
window, and whispered something to his brother, who in- 
stantly left the room. 

Lord Colambre saw the post-chaise at the door, which 
had brought Mrs. Raffarty to the castle, and Larry standing 
beside it ; his lordship instantly threw up the sash, and 
holding between his finger and thumb a six-shilling piece, 
cried, “Larry, my friend, le^ me have the horses! ” 

“You shall have ’em — your honour,” said Larry. Mr. 
Dennis Garraghty appeared below, speaking in a magis- 
terial tone. “Larry, my brother must have the horses.” 

“He can’t, your honour — they’re engaged.” 

“Half a crown! — a crown! — half a guinea!” said Mr. 
Dennis Garraghty, raising his voice, as he increased his 
proffered bribe. To each offer Larry replied,^ “You can’t 
plase your honour, they’re engaged ” ; — and, looking up to 
the window at Lord Colambre, he said, “As soon as they 
have eaten their oats, you shall have ’em.” 

No other horses were to be had. The agent was in con- 
sternation. Lord Colambre ordered that Larry should 
have some dinner, and whilst the postillion was eating, and 
the horses finishing their oats, his lordship wrote the fol- 
lowing letter to his father, which, to prevent all possibility 
of accident, he determined to put, with his own hand, into 
the post-office at Clonbrony, as he passed through the town. 

My dear Father, 

I hope to be with you in a few days. Lest anything should 
detain me on the road, I write this, to make an earnest request 

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to you, that you will not sign any papers, or transact any farther 
business with Messrs. Nicholas or Dennis Garraghty, before you 
see your affectionate son, CoLAMnRE. 

The horses came out. Larry sent word he was ready, 
and Lord Colambre, having first eaten a slice of his own 
venison, ran down to the carriage, followed by the thanks 
and blessings of the widow, her son, and daughter, who 
could hardly make their way after him to the chaise-door, 
so great was the crowd which had gathered on the report 
of his lordship’s arrival. 

“Long life to your honour! Long life to your lord- 
ship!” echoed on all sides. “Just come, and going, are 
you? ” 

“Good-bye to you all, good people! ” 

“Then good-bye is the only word we wouldn’t wish to 
hear from your honour,” 

“For the sake both of landlord and tenant, I must leave 
you now, my good friends ; but I hope to return to you at 
some future time.” 

“God bless you! and speed ye! and a safe journey to 
your honour! — and a happy return to us, and soon ! ” cried 
a multitude of voices. 

Lord Colambre stopped at the chaise-door, and beckoned 
to the widow O’Neill, before whom others had pressed. 
An opening was made for her instantly. 

“There! that was the very way his father stood, with 
his feet on the steps. And Miss Nugent was in it.'' 

Lord Colambre forgot what he was going to say — with 
some difficulty recollected. 

“This pocket-book,” said he, “which your son restored 
to me — I intend it for your daughter — don’t keep it, as 
your son kept it for me, without opening it. Let what is 
within-side,” added he, as he got into the carriage, “replace 
the cloak and gown, and let all things necessary for a bride 
be bought; Tor the bride that has all things to borrow has 
surely mickle to do,’ — Shut the door, and drive on.” 

“Blessings be wid you,” cried the widow, “and God give 
you grace ! ’ ’ 


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CHAPTER XIIL 

T ARRY drove off at full gallop, and kept on at a good 
-L/ rate, till he got out of the great gate, and beyond 
the sight of the crowd ; then, pulling up, he turned 
to Lord Colambre — **Plase your honour, I did not know 
nor guess ye was my lord, when I let you have the horses ; 
did not know who you was from Adam, I’ll take my 
affidavit.” ^ 

“There’s no occasion,” said Lord Colambre; “I hope 
you don’t repent letting me have the horses, now you do 
know who I am? ” 

“Oh! not at all, sure; I’m as glad as the best horse I 
ever crossed, that your honour is my lord — but I was only 
telling your honour, that you might not be looking upon 
me as a time-sarverP 

“I do not look upon you as a tinie-sarvery Larry; but 
keep on, that time may serve me.” 

In two words, he explained his cause of haste; and no 
sooner explained than understood. Larry thundered away 
through the town of Clonbrony, bending over his horses, 
plying the whip, and lending his very soul at every lash. 
With much difficulty. Lord Colambre stopped him at the 
end of the town, at the post-office. The post was gone 
out — gone a quarter of an hour. 

“Maybe we’ll overtake the mail,” said Larry; and, as 
he spoke, he slid down from his seat, and darted into the 
public-house, reappearing, in a few moments, with a copper 
of ale and a horn in his hand ; he and another man held 
open the horses’ mouths, and poured the ale through the 
horn down their throats. 

“Now, they’ll go with spirit! ” 

And, with the hope of overtaking the mail, Larry made 
them go “for life or death,” as he said; but in vain! At 
the next stage, at his own inn-door, Larry roared for fresh 
horses till he got them, harnessed them with his own hands, 
holding the six-shilling piece, which Lord Colambre had 
given him, in his mouth, all the while; for he could not 
take time to put it into his pocket. 

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Speed ye ! I wish I was driving you all the way, then, 
said he. The other postillion was not yet ready. “Then 
your honour sees,’' said he, putting his head into the car- 
riage, '' consarning of them Garraghties — old Nick and St. 
Dennis — the best part, that is the worst part, of what I 
told you, proved true; and Tm glad of it, that is, Tm 
sorry for it — but glad your honour knows it in time. So 
Heaven prosper you ! And may all the saints {barring St. 
Dennis) have charge of you, and all belonging to you, till 
we see you here again! — And when will it be? “ 

“I cannot say when I shall return to you myself, but I 
will do my best to send your landlord to you soon. In 
the meantime, my good fellow, keep away from the sign 
of the Horse-shoe — a man of your sense to drink and make 
an idiot and a brute of yourself! “ 

“True! — And it was only when I had lost hope I took 
to it — but now ! Bring me the book, one of yees, out of 
the landlady’s parlour. — By the virtue of this book, and 
by all the books that ever was shut and opened, I won’t 
totlch a drop of spirits, good or bad, till I see your honour 
again, or some of the family, this time twelvemonth — that 
long I’ll live on hope — but mind, if you disappoint me, I 
don’t swear but I’ll take to the whisky, for comfort, all the 
rest of my days. But don’t be staying here, wasting your 
time, advising me. Bartley! take the reins, can’t ye?'” 
cried he, giving them to the fresh postillion; “and keep 
on, for your life, for there’s thousands of pounds depend- 
ing on the race — so, off, off, Bartley, with speed of light ! ” 
Bartley did his best ; and such was the excellence of the 
roads, that, notwithstanding the rate at which our hero 
travelled, he arrived safely in Dublin, and just in time to 
put his letter into the post-office, and to sail in that night’s 
packet. The wind was fair when Lord Colambre went on 
board, but before they got out of the bay it changed ; they 
made no way all night ; in the course of the next day, they 
had the mortification to see another packet from Dublin 
sail past them, and when they landed at Holyhead, were 
told the packet, which had left Ireland twelve hours after 
them, had been in an hour before them. The passengers 

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had taken their places in the coach, and engaged what 
horses could be had. Lord Colambre was afraid that Mr. 
Garraghty was one of them ; a person exactly answering 
his description had taken four horses, and set out half an 
hour before in great haste for London. Luckily, just as 
those who had taken their places in the mail were getting 
into the coach, Lord Colambre saw among them a gentle- 
man, with whom he had been acquainted in Dublin, a bar- 
rister, who was come over during the long vacation, to 
make a tour of pleasure in England. When Lord Colambre 
explained the reason he had for being in haste to reach 
London, he had the good-nature to give up to him his 
place in the coach. Lord Colambre travelled all night, 
and delayed not one moment, till he reached his father’s 
house in London. 

“My father at home? “ 

“Yes, my lord, in his own room — the agent from Ireland 
with him, on particular business — desired not to be inter- 
rupted — but ril go and tell him, my lord, you are come.” 

Lord Colambre ran past the servant, as he spoke — made 
his way into the room — found his father. Sir Terence 
O’Fay, and Mr. Garraghty — leases open on the table be- 
fore them; a candle lighted; Sir Terence sealing; Gar- 
raghty emptying a bag of guineas on the table, and Lord 
Clonbrony actually with a pen in his hand, ready to sign. 

As the door opened, Garraghty started back, so that half 
the contents of his bag rolled upon the floor. 

“Stop, my dear father, I conjure you,” cried Lord Co- 
lambre, springing forward, and kneeling to his father; at 
the same moment snatching the pen from his hand. 

“Colambre ! God bless you, my dear boy ! at all events. 
But how came you here? — And what do you mean? ” said 
his father. 

“Burn it! ” cried Sir Terence, pinching the sealing-wax; 
“for I burnt myself with the pleasure of the surprise.” 

Garraghty, without saying a word, was picking up the 
guineas that were scattered upon the floor. 

“How fortunate I am,” cried Lord Colambre, “to have 
arrived just in time to tell you, my dear father, before 

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you put your signature to these papers, before you con- 
clude this bargain, all I know, all I have seen, of that 
man ! 

“Nick Garraghty, honest old Nick; do you know him, 
my lord? “said Sir Terence. 

“Too well, sir.” 

“Mr. Garraghty, what have you done to offend my son? 
I did not expect this,’" said Lord Clonbrony. 

“Upon my conscience, my lord, nothing to my know- 
ledge,” said Mr. Garraghty, picking up the guineas; “but 
showed him every civility, even so far as offering to ac- 
commodate him with cash without security; and where 
will you find the other agent, in Ireland or anywhere else, 
will do that? To my knowledge, I never did anything, by 
word or deed, to offend my Lord Colambre ; nor could not, 
for I never saw him, but for ten minutes, in my days ; and 
then he was in such a foaming passion — begging his lord- 
ship’s pardon — owing to the misrepresentations he met 
with of me, I presume, from a parcel of blackguards that 
he went amongst, incognito, he would not let me or my 
brother Dennis say a word to set him right ; but exposed 
me before all the tenantry, and then threw himself into a 
hack, and drove off here, to stop the signing of these 
leases, I perceive. But I trust,” concluded he, putting 
the replenished money-bag down with a heavy sound on 
the table, opposite to Lord Clonbrony, — “I trust, my 
Lord Clonbrony will do me justice; that’s all I have to 
say. ’ ’ 

“I comprehend the force of your last argument fully, 
sir,” said Lord Colambre. “May I ask how many guineas 
there are in the bag? I don’t ask whether they are my 
father’s or not.” 

“They are to be your lordship’s father’s, sir, if bethinks 
proper,” replied Garraghty. “How many, I don’t know 
that I can justly, positively say — five hundred, suppose.” 

“And they would be my father’s if he signed those leases 
— I understand that perfectly, and understand that my 
father would lose three times that sum by the bargain. — 
My dear father, you start — but it is true. Is not this the 

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rent, sir, at which you were going to let Mr. Garraghty 
have the land? ” placing a paper before Lord Clonbrony. 

“It is — the very thing.” 

“And here, sir, written with my own hand, are copies of 
the proposals I saw, from responsible, respectable tenants, 
offered and refused. — Is it so, or is it not, Mr. Garraghty? 
— deny it, if you can.” 

Mr. Garraghty grew pale; his lips quivered; he stam- 
mered ; and, after a shocking convulsion of face, could at 
last articulate — only — 

“That there was a great difference between tenant and 
tenant, his lordship must be sensible, especially for so large 
a rent.” — “As great a difference as between agent and 
agent, I am sensible — especially for so large a property ! ’ ’ 
said Lord Colambre, with cool contempt. “You find, sir, 
I am well informed with regard to this transaction; you 
will find, also, that I am equally well informed with respect 
to every part of your conduct towards my father and his 
tenantry. If, in relating to him what I have seen and 
heard, I should make any mistakes, you are here; and I 
am glad you are, to set me right, and to do yourself 
justice.” 

“Oh! as to that, I should not presume to contradict 
anything your lordship asserts from your own authority : 
where would be the use? I leave it all to your lordship. 
But, as it is not particularly agreeable to stay to hear one’s 
self abused — Sir Terence! I’ll thank you to hand me my 
hat! — And if you’ll have the goodness, my Lord Clon- 
brony, to look over finally the accounts before morning. 
I’ll call at your leisure to settle the balance, as you find 
convenient; as to the leases, I’m quite indifferent.” 

So saying, he took up his money-bag. 

“Well, you’ll call again in the morning, Mr. Garraghty ! ” 
said Sir Terence; “and, by that time, I hope we shall 
understand this misunderstanding better.” 

Sir Terence pulled Lord Clonbrony ’s sleeve: “don’t let 
him go with the money — it’s much wanted!” 

“Let him go,” said Lord Colambre; “money can be 
had by honourable means.” 

I? 


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'*Wheugh! — He talks as if he had the Bank of England 
at his command, as every young man does,” said Sir 
Terence. 

Lord Colambre deigned no reply. Lord Clonbrony 
walked undecidedly between his agent and his son — looked 
at Sir Terence, and said nothing. 

Mr. Garraghty departed; Lord Clonbrony called after 
him from the head of the stairs — 

“I shall be at home and at leisure in the morning.” Sir 
Terence ran downstairs after him; Lord Colambre waited 
quietly for their return. 

“Fifteen hundred guineas, at a stroke of a goose-quill!— 
That was a neat hit, narrowly missed, of honest Nick’s! ” 
said Lord Clonbrony. “Too bad! too bad, faith! — I am 
much, very much obliged to you, Colambre, for that hint ; 
by to-morrow morning we shall have him in another tune.” 

“And he must double the bag, or quit,” said Sir Terence. 

“Treble it, if you please, Terry. Sure, three times five’s 
fifteen; — fifteen hundred down, or he does not get my 
signature to those leases for his brother, nor get the agency 
of the Colambre estate. — Colambre, what more have you 
to tell of him? for, since he is making out his accounts 
against me, it is no harm to have a per contra against him 
that may ease my balance.” 

“Very fair! very fair!” said Sir Terence. “My lord, 
trust me for remembering all the charges against him — • 
every item; and when he can’t clear himself, if I don’t 
make him buy a good character dear enough, why, say I’m 
a fool, and don’t know the value of character, good or 
bad!” 

“If you know the value of character, Sir Terence,” said 
Lord Colambre, “you know that it is not to be bought or 
sold.” Then, turning from Sir Terence to his father, he 
gave a full and true account of all he had seen in his pro- 
gress through his Irish estates ; and drew a faithful picture 
both of the bad and good agent. Lord Clonbrony, who 
had benevolent feelings, and was fond of his tenantry, was 
touched; and, when his son ceased speaking, repeated 
several times — 


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‘‘Rascal! rascal! How dare he use my tenants so — the 
O’Neills in particular! — Rascal! bad heart ! — I’ll have no 
more to do with him.” But, suddenly recollecting him- 
self, he turned to Sir Terence, and added, “That’s sooner 

said than done I’ll tell you honestly, Colambre, your 

friend Mr. Burke may be the best man in the world — but 
he IS the worst man to apply to for a remittance, or a loan, 
in a hurry! He always tells me ‘he can’t distress the 
tenants.’ ” — “And he never, at coming into the agency 
even,” said Sir Terence, advanced 2. good round sum to 
the landlord, by way of security for his good behaviour. 
Now honest Nick did that much for us at coming in.” 

“And at going out is he not to be repaid?” said Lord 
Colambre. 

“That’s the devil!” said Lord Clonbrony; “that’s the 
very reason I can’t conveniently turn him out.” 

“I will make it convenient to you, sir, if you will permit 
me,” said Lord Colambre. “In a few days I shall be of 
age, and will join with you in raising whatever sum you 
want, to free you from this man. Allow me to look over 
his account ; and whatever the honest balance may be, let 
him have it.” 

“My dear boy! ” said Lord Clonbrony, “you’re a gener- 
ous fellow. Fine Irish heart ! — glad you’re my son ! But 
there’s more, much more, that you don’t know,” added 
he, looking at Sir Terence, who cleared his throat; and 
Lord Clonbrony, who was on the point of opening all his 
affairs to his son, stopped short. 

“Colambre,” said he, “we will not say anything more 
of this at present ; for nothing effectual can be done till 
you are of age, and then we shall see all about it.” 

Lord Colambre perfectly understood what his father 
meant, and what was meant by the clearing of Sir Terence’s 
throat. Lord Clonbrony wanted his son to join him in 
opening the estate to pay his debts ; and Sir Terence feared 
that, if Lord Colambre were abruptly told the whole sum 
total of the debts, he would never be persuaded to join 
in selling or mortgaging so much of his patrimony as would 
be necessary for their payment. Sir Terence thought that 

195 


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the young man, ignorant probably of business, and un- 
suspicious of the state of his father's affairs, might be 
brought, by proper management, to any measures they 
desired. Lord Clonbrony wavered between the temptation 
to throw himself upon the generosity of his son, and the 
immediate convenience of borrowing a sum of money from 
his agent, to relieve his present embarrassments. 

“Nothing can be settled,” repeated he, “till Colambre is 
of age; so it does not signify talking of it.” 

“Why so, sir? ” said Lord Colambre. “Though my act, 
in law, may not be valid, till I am of age, my promise, as 
a man of honour, is binding now; and, I trust, would be 
as satisfactory to my father as any legal deed whatever. ’ ' 

“Undoubtedly, my dear boy; but ” 

“But what? ” said Lord Colambre, following his father's 
eye, which turned to Sir Terence O’Fay, as if asking his 
permission to explain. 

“As my father’s friend, sir, you ought, permit me to 
say, at this moment to use your influence to prevail upon 
him to throw aside all reserve with a son, whose warmest 
wish is to serve him, and to see him at ease and happy.” 

“Generous, dear boy,” cried Lord Clonbrony. “Terence, 
I can’t stand it ; but how shall I bring myself to name the 
amount of the debts? ” 

“At some time or other, I must know it,” said Lord 
Colambre; “I cannot be better prepared at any moment 
than the present ; never more disposed to give my assist- 
ance to relieve all difficulties. Blindfold, I cannot be led 
to any purpose, sir,” said he, looking at Sir Terence; “the 
attempt would be degrading and futile. Blindfolded I will 
not be — but, with my eyes open, I will see, and go straight 
and prompt as heart can go, to my father’s interest, with- 
out a look or thought to my own.” 

“By St. Patrick! the spirit of a prince, and an Irish 
prince, spoke there,” cried Sir Terence; “and if I’d fifty 
hearts, you’d have all in your hand this minute, at your 
service, and warm. Blindfold you ! after that, the man 
that would attempt it desarves to be shot; and I’d have 
no sincerer pleasure in life than shooting him this moment, 

196 


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was he my best friend. But it ’s not Clonbrony, your 
father, my lord, would act that way, no more than Sir 
Terence O’ Fay — there’s the schedule of the debts,” draw- 
ing a paper from his bosom ; “and I’ll swear to the lot, and 
not a man on earth could do that but myself.” 

Lord Colambre opened the paper. His father turned 
aside, covering his face with both his hands. 

“Tut, man,” said Sir Terence; “I know him now better 
than you ; he will stand, you’ll find, the shock of that regi- 
ment of figures — he is steel to the backbone, and proof 
spirit.” 

“I thank you, my dear father,” said Lord Colambre, 
“for trusting me thus at once with a view of the truth. 
At first sight it is, I acknowledge, worse than I expected ; 
but I make no doubt that, when you allow me to examine 
Mr. Garraghty’s accounts and Mr. Mordicai’s claims, we 
shall be able to reduce this alarming total considerably, my 
dear father. You think we learn nothing but Latin and 
Greek at Cambridge; but you are mistaken.” 

“The devil a pound, nor a penny,” said Sir Terence; 
“for you have to deal with a Jew and old Nick; and I’m 
not a match for them. I don’t know who is; and I have 
no hope of getting any abatement. I’ve looked over the 
accounts till I’m sick.” 

“Nevertheless, you will observe that fifteen hundred 
guineas have been saved to my father, at one stroke, by 
his not signing those leases.” 

“Saved to you, my lord; not your father, if you plase,” 
said Sir Terence. “For now I’m upon the square with 
you, I must be straight as an arrow, and deal with you 
as the son and friend of my friend; before, I was con- 
sidering you only as the son and heir, which is quite an- 
other thing, you know; accordingly, acting for your father 
here, I was making the best bargain against you I could ; 
honestly, now, I tell you. I knew the value of the lands 
well enough ; we were as sharp as Garraghty, and he knew 
it ; we were to have had the difference from him, partly in 
cash and partly in balance of accounts — you comprehend — 
and you only would have been the loser, and never would 

197 


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have known it, maybe, till after we all were dead and 
buried; and then you might have set aside Garraghty’s 
lease easy, and no harm done to any but a rogue that de- 
sarved it ; and, in the meantime, an accommodation to my 
honest friend, my lord, your father, here. But, as fate 
would have it, you upset all by your progress incognito 
through them estates. Well, it’s best as it is, and I am 
better pleased to be as we are, trusting all to a generous 
son’s own heart. Now put the poor father out of pain, 
and tell us what you’ll do, my dear.” 

“In one word, then,” said Lord Colambre, “I will, upon 
two conditions, either join my father in levying fines to 
enable him to sell or mortgage whatever portion of his 
estate is necessary for the payment of these debts; or I 
will, in whatever other mode he can point out, as more 
agreeable or more advantageous to him, join in giving 
security to his creditors.” 

“Dear, noble fellow! ” cried Sir Terence; “none but an 
Irishman could do it.” 

Lord Clonbrony, melted to tears, could not articulate, 
but held his arms open to embrace his son. 

“But you have not heard my conditions yet,” said Lord 
Colambre. 

“Oh, confound the conditions! ” cried Sir Terence. 

“What conditions could he ask that I could refuse at 
this minute? ” said Lord Clonbrony. 

“Nor I — was it my heart’s blood, and were I to be 
hanged for it,” cried Sir Terence. “And what are the 
conditions? ” 

“That Mr. Garraghty shall be dismissed from the 
agency.” 

“And welcome, and glad to get rid of him — the rogue, 
the tyrant,” said Lord Clonbrony ; “and, to be beforehand 
with you in your next wish, put Mr. Burke into his place.” 

“I’ll write the letter for you to sign, my lord, this 
minute,” cried Terry, “with all the pleasure in life. No; 
it’s my Lord Colambre should do that in all justice.” 

But what’s your next condition ? I hope it’s no worse, ' ’ 
said Lord Clonbrony. 


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“That you and my mother should cease to be absentees/* 

“Oh murder! “ said Sir Terence; “maybe that’s not so 
easy; for there are two words to that bargain.” 

Lord Clonbrony declared that, for his own part, he was 
ready to return to Ireland next morning, and to promise to 
reside on his estate all the rest of his days ; that there was 
nothing he desired more, provided Lady Clonbrony would 
consent to it; but that he could not promise for her; that 
she was as obstinate as a mule on that point ; that he had 
often tried, but that there was no moving her ; and that, in 
short, he could not promise on her part. 

But it was on this condition, Lord Colambre said, he 
must insist. Without this condition was granted, he would 
not engage to do anything. 

“Well, we must only see how it will be when she comes 
to town ; she will come up from Buxton the day you’re of 
age to sign some papers,” said Lord Clonbrony; “but,” 
added he, with a very dejected look and voice, “if all’s to 
depend on my Lady Clonbrony’s consenting to return to 
Ireland, I’m as far from all hope of being at ease as 
ever. 

“Upon my conscience, we’re all at sea again,” said Sir 
Terence. 

Lord Colambre was silent : but in his silence there was 
such an air of firmness, that both Lord Clonbrony and Sir 
Terence were convinced entreaties would on this point be 
fruitless — Lord Clonbrony sighed deeply. 

“But when it’s ruin or safety, and her husband and all 
belonging to her at stake, the woman can’t persist in being 
a mule,” said Sir Terence. 

“Of whom are you talking?” said Lord Colambre. 

“Of whom? Oh, I beg your lordship’s pardon — I 
thought I was talking to my lord ; but, in other words, as 
you are her son. I’m persuaded her ladyship, your mother, 
will prove herself a reasonable woman — when she sees she 
can’t help it. So, my Lord Clonbrony, cheer up; a great 
deal may be done by the fear of Mordicai, and an execu- 
tion, especially now the prior creditor. Since there’s no 
reserve between you and I now, my Lord Colambre, said 

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Sir Terence, “I must tell you all, and how we shambled on 
those months while you were in Ireland. First, Mordicai 
went to law, to prove I was in a conspiracy with your 
father, pretending to be prior creditor, to keep him off and 
out of his own ; which, after a world of swearing and law — 
law always takes time to do justice, that’s one comfort — 
the villain proved at last to be true enough, and so cast us ; 
and I was forced to be paid off last week. So there’s no 
prior creditor, or any shield of pretence that way. Then 
his execution was coming down upon us, and nothing to 
stay it till I thought of a monthly annuity to Mordicai, in 
the shape of a wager. So, the morning after he cast us, I 
went to him: ‘Mr. Mordicai,* says I, ‘you must be plased 
to see a man you’ve beaten so handsomely; and though 
I’m sore, both for myself and my friend, yet you see I can 
laugh still ; though an execution is no laughing matter, and 
I’m sinsible you’ve one in petto in your sleeve for my 
friend Lord Clonbrony. But I’ll lay you a wager of a 
hundred guineas in paper that a marriage of his son with a 
certain heiress, before next Lady-day, will set all to rights, 
and pay you with a compliment too.’ ” 

“Good heavens. Sir Terence! surely you said no such 
thing? ’’ 

“I did — but what was it but a wager? which is nothing 
but a dream ; and, when lost, as I am as sinsible as you are 
that it must be, why, what is it, after all, but a bonus, in 
a gentleman-like form, to Mordicai? which, I grant you, 
is more than he deserves, for staying the execution till you 
be of age; and even for my Lady Clonbrony ’s sake, though 
I know she hates me like poison, rather than have her dis- 
turbed by an execution, Fd pay the hundred guineas this 
minute out of my own pocket, if I had ’em in it.” 

A thundering knock at the door was heard at this 
moment. 

“Never heed it; let ’em thunder,” said Sir Terence; 
“whoever it is, they won’t get in; for my lord bid them 
let none in for their life. It’s necessary for us to be very 
particular about the street-door now ; and I advise a double 
chain for it, and to have the footmen well tutored to look 


200 


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before they run to a double rap ; for a double rap might be 
a double trap/' 

‘'My lady and Miss Nugent, my lord," said a footman, 
throwing open the door. 

"My mother! Miss Nugent!" cried Lord Colambre, 
springing eagerly forward. 

"Colambre! here!" said his mother; "but it’s all too 
late now, and no matter where you are." 

Lady Clonbrony coldly suffered her son to embrace her; 
and he, without considering the coldness of her manner, 
scarcely hearing, and not at all understanding the words she 
said, fixed his eyes on his cousin, who, with a countenance 
all radiant with affectionate joy, held out her hand to him. 

"Dear cousin Colambre, what an unexpected pleasure!" 

He seized the hand ; but, as he was going to kiss it, the 
recollection of SL Omar crossed his mind ; he checked him- 
self, and said something about joy and pleasure, but his 
countenance expressed neither; and Miss Nugent, much 
surprised by the coldness of his manner, withdrew her 
hand, and, turning away, left the room. 

"Grace! darling! " called Lord Clonbrony, "whither so 
fast, before you’ve given me a word or a kiss? " 

She came back, and hastily kissed her uncle, who folded 
her in his arms. "Why must I let you go? And what 
makes you so pale, my dear child?" 

"I am a little — a little tired. I will be with you again 
soon." 

Her uncle let her go. 

"Your famous Buxton baths don’t seem to have agreed 
with her, by all I can see," said Lord Clonbrony. 

"My lord, the Buxton baths are no way to blame; but 
I know what is to blame, and who is to blame," said Lady 
Clonbrony, in a tone of displeasure, fixing her eyes upon 
her son. "Yes, you may well look confounded, Colambre ; 
but it is too late now — you should have known your own 
mind in time. I see you have heard it, then — but I am 
sure I don’t know how; for it was only decided the day I 
left Buxton. The news could hardly travel faster than I 
did. Pray, how did you hear it? " 

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“Hear what, ma’am?” said Lord Colambre. 

“Why, that Miss Broadhurst is going to be married.” 

“Oh, is that all, ma’am! ” said our hero, much relieved. 

“All! Now, Lord Colambre, you reelly Site too much 
for my patience. But I flatter myself you will feel, when 
I tell you, that it is your friend. Sir Arthur Berryl, as I 
always prophesied, who has carried off the prize from you.” 

“But for the fear of displeasing my dear mother, I should 
say, that I do feel sincere pleasure in this marriage — I al- 
ways wished it: my friend. Sir Arthur, from the first 
moment, trusted me with the secret of his attachment ; he 
knew that he had my warm good wishes for his success ; he 
knew that I thought most highly of the young lady ; but 
that I never thought of her as a wife for myself.” 

“And why did not you? that is the very thing I com- 
plain of,” said Lady Clonbrony. “But it is all over now. 
You may set your heart at ease, for they are to be married 
on Thursday ; and poor Mrs. Broadhurst is ready to break 
her heart, for she was set upon a coronet for her daughter; 
and you, ungrateful as you are, you don’t know how she 
wished you to be the happy man. But only conceive, 
after all that has passed. Miss Broadhurst had the assurance 
to expect I would let my niece be her bridesmaid. Oh, I 
flatly refused; that is, I told Grace it could not be; and, 
that there might be no affront to Mrs. Broadhurst, who 
did not deserve it, I pretended Grace had never mentioned 
it; but ordered my carriage, and left Buxton directly. 
Grace was hurt, for she is very warm in her friendships. I 
am sorry to hurt Grace. But reelfy I could not let her be 
bridesmaid; — and that, if you must know, is what vexed 
her, and made the tears come in her eyes, I suppose — and 
I’m sorry for it; but one must keep up one’s dignity a 
little. After all. Miss Broadhurst was only a citizen — and 
reel/y now, a very odd girl ; never did anything like any- 
body else ; settled her marriage at last in the oddest way. 
Grace, can you tell the particulars? I own, I am tired of 
the subject, and tired of my journey. My lord, I shall 
take leave to dine in my own room to-day,” continued her 
ladyship, as she quitted the room. 


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“I hope her ladyship did not notice me,” said Sir Terence 
O’Fay, coming from behind a window-curtain. 

“Why, Terry, what did you hide for? ’’ said Lord Clon- 
brony. 

“Hide! I didn’t hide, nor wouldn’t from any man liv- 
ing, let alone any woman.' Hide! no; but I just stood 
looking out of the window, behind this curtain, that my 
poor Lady Clonbrony might not be discomfited and shocked 
by the sight of one whom she can’t abide, the very minute 
she come home. Oh, I’ve some consideration — it would 
have put her out of humour worse with both of you too; 
and for that there’s no need, as far as I see. So I’ll take 
myself off to my coffee-house to dine, and maybe you may 
get her down and into spirits again. But, for your lives, 
don’t touch upon Ireland the night, nor till she has fairly 
got the better of the marriage. Apropos — there’s my wager 
to Mordicai gone at a slap. It’s I that ought to be scold- 
ing you, my Lord Colambre; but I trust you will do as 
well yet, not in point of purse, maybe. But I’m not one 
of those that think that money’s everything — though, I 
grant you, in this world, there’s nothing to be had without 
it — love excepted — which most people don’t believe in — 
but not I — in particular cases. So I leave you, with my 
blessing, and I’ve a notion, at this time, that is better than 
my company — your most devoted ’’ 

The good-natured Sir Terence would not be persuaded 
by Lord Clonbrony to stay. Nodding at Lord Colambre 
as he went out of the room, he said, “I’ve an eye, in go- 
ing, to your heart’s ease too. When I played myself, I 
never liked standers-by.’’ 

Sir Terence was not deficient in penetration, but he 
never could help boasting of his discoveries. 

Lord Colambre was grateful for his judicious departure; 
and followed his equally judicious advice, not to touch 
upon Ireland this night. 

Lady Clonbrony was full of Buxton, and he was glad to 
be relieved from the necessity of talking; and he indulged 
himself in considering what might be passing in Miss 

* Leaving any woman out of the question. 

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Nugent’s mind. She now appeared in remarkably good 
spirits ; for her aunt had given her a hint that she thought 
her out of humour because she had not been permitted to 
be Miss Broadhurst’s bridesmaid, and she was determined 
to exert herself to dispel this notion. This it was now 
easy for her to do, because she had, by this time, in her 
own imagination, found a plausible excuse for that cold- 
ness in Lord Colambre’s reception of her, by which she had 
at first been hurt ; she had settled it, that he had taken it 
for granted she was of his mother’s sentiments respecting 
Miss Broadhurst’s marriage, and that this idea, and per- 
haps the apprehension of her reproaches, had caused his 
embarrassment — she knew that she could easily set this 
misunderstanding right. Accordingly, when Lady Clon- 
brony had talked herself to sleep about Buxton, and was 
taking her afternoon’s nap, as it was her custom to do 
when she had neither cards nor company to keep her 
awake. Miss Nugent began to explain her own sentiments, 
and to give Lord Colambre, as her aunt had desired, an 
account of the manner in which Miss Broadhurst’s marriage 
had been settled. 

“In the first place,” said she, “let me assure you that I 
rejoice in this marriage; I think your friend. Sir Arthur 
Berryl, is every way deserving of my friend. Miss Broad- 
hurst; and this from me,’’ said she, smiling, “is no slight 
eulogium. I have marked the rise and progress of their 
attachment ; and it has been founded on the perception of 
such excellent qualities on each side, that I have no fear 
for its permanence. Sir Arthur Berryl’s honourable con- 
duct in paying his father’s debts, and his generosity to his 
mother and sisters, whose fortunes were left entirely de- 
pendent upon him, first pleased my friend. It was like 
what she would have done herself, and like — in short, it is 
what few young men, as she said, of the present day would 
do. Then his refraining from all personal expenses, his 
going without equipage and without horses, that he might 
do what he felt to be right, whilst it exposed him con- 
tinually to the ridicule of fashionable young men, or to the 
charge of avarice, made a very different impression on 

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Miss Broadhurst’s mind ; her esteem and admiration were 
excited by these proofs of strength of character, and of 
just and good principles.” 

“If you go on, you will make me envious and jealous of 
my friend,” said Lord Colambre. 

“You jealous! — Oh, it is too late now — besides, you 
cannot be jealous, for you never loved.” 

“I never loved Miss Broadhurst, I acknowledge.” 

“There was the advantage Sir Arthur Berryl had over 
you — he loved, and my friend saw it.” 

“She was clear-sighted,” said Lord Colambre. 

“She was clear-sighted, ” repeated Miss Nugent; “but 
if you mean that she was vain, and apt to fancy people in 
love with her, I can assure you that you are mistaken. 
Never was woman, young or old, more clear-sighted to the 
views of those by whom she was addressed. No flattery, 
no fashion, could blind her judgment.” 

“She knew how to choose a friend well, I am sure,” 
said Lord Colambre. 

“ And a friend for life too, I am sure you will allow — and 
she had such numbers, such strange variety of admirers, 
as might have puzzled the choice and turned the brain of 
any inferior person. Such a succession of lovers as she has 
had this summer, ever since you went to Ireland — they ap- 
peared and vanished like figures in a magic-lantern. She 
had three noble admirers — rank in three different forms 
offered themselves. First came in, hobbling, rank and 
gout; next, rank and gaming; then rank, very high rank, 
over head and ears in debt. All of these were rejected ; 
and, as they moved off, I thought Mrs. Broadhurst would 
have broken her heart. Next came fashion, with his head, 
heart, and soul in his cravat — he quickly made his bow, or 
rather his nod, and walked off, taking a pinch of snuff. 
Then came a man of gallantry, but,” whispered Miss 
Nugent, “there was a mistress in the wood; and my friend 
could have nothing to do with that gentleman.” 

“Now, if she liked the man,” interrupted Lord Clon- 
brony, “and I suppose she did, for all women, but your- 
self, Grace, like men of gallantry. Miss Broadhurst was a 

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goose for refusing him on account of the mistress ; because 
she might have been bought up, and settled with a few 
thousand pounds.” 

“Be that as it may,” said Miss Nugent; “my friend did 
not like, and would not accept, of the man of gallantry; 
so he retired and comforted himself with a copy of verses. 
Then came a man of wit — but still it was wit without 
worth; and presently came ‘worth without wit.’ She pre- 
ferred ‘wit and worth united,’ which she fortunately at last 
found, Lord Colambre, in your friend, Sir Arthur Berryl.” 

“Grace, my girl!” said her uncle, “I’m glad to see 
you’ve got up your spirits again, though you were not to be 
bridesmaid.. Well, I hope you’ll be bride soon — I’m sure 
you ought to be — and you should think of rewarding that 
poor Mr. Salisbury, who plagues me to death, whenever 
he can catch hold of me, about you. He must have our 
definitive at last, you know, Grace.” 

A silence ensued, which neither Miss Nugent nor Lord 
Colambre seemed willing, or able, to break. 

“Very good company, faith, you three! — One of ye 
asleep, and the other two saying nothing, to keep one 
awake. Colambre, have you no Dublin news? Grace, 
have you no Buxton scandal? What was it Lady Clon- 
brony told us you’d tell us, about the oddness of Miss 
Broadhurst’s settling her marriage? Tell me that, for I 
love to hear odd things.” 

“Perhaps you will not think it odd,” said she. “One 
evening — but I should begin by telling you that three of 
her admirers, beside Sir Arthur Berryl, had followed her to 
Buxton, and had been paying their court to her all the 
time we were there; and at last grew impatient for her 
decision.” 

“Ay, for her definitive!” said Lord Clonbrony. Miss 
Nugent was put out again, but resumed — 

“So one evening, just before the dancing began, the 
gentlemen were all standing round Miss Broadhurst ; one 
of them said, ‘I wish Miss Broadhurst would decide — that 
whoever she dances with to-night should be her partner 
for life; what a happy man he would be!’ 

206 



‘ First came in, hobbling, rank and gout ; next, rank and gaming.’ 


* ^ . 






0 


« 


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‘But how can I decide?* said Miss Broadhurst. 

“ ‘I wish I had a friend to plead for me! ’ said one of 
the suitors, looking at me. 

“ ‘Have you no friend of your own?* said Miss Broad- 
hurst. 

“ ‘Plenty of friends,* said the gentleman. 

“‘Plenty! — then you must be a very happy man,* re- 
plied Miss Broadhurst. ‘Come,* said she, laughing, ‘I will 
dance with that man who can convince me — that he has, 
near relations excepted, one true friend in the world ! 
That man who has made the best friend, I dare say, will 
make the best husband ! * 

“At that moment,** continued Miss Nugent, “I was 
certain who would be her choice. The gentlemen all de- 
clared at first that they had abundance of excellent friends 
— the best friends in the world ! but when Miss Broadhurst 
cross-examined them, as to what their friends had done for 
them, or what they were willing to do, modern friendship 
dwindled into a ridiculously small compass. I cannot give 
you the particulars of the cross-examination, though it was 
conducted with great spirit and humour by Miss Broad- 
hurst; but I can tell you the result — that Sir Arthur 
Berryl, by incontrovertible facts, and eloquence warm 
from the heart, convinced everybody present that he had 
the best friend in the world; and Miss Broadhurst, as he 
finished speaking, gave him her hand, and he led her off 

in triumph So you see. Lord Colambre, you were at 

last the cause of my friend*s marriage! ** 

She turned to Lord Colambre as she spoke these words, 
with such an affectionate smile, and such an expression of 
open, inmost tenderness in her whole countenance, that 
our hero could hardly resist the impulse of his passion — 
could hardly restrain himself from falling at her feet that 
instant, and declaring his love. “But St. Omar! St. 
Omar! — It must not be! ** 

“I must be gone!** said Lord Clonbrony, pulling out 
his watch. “It is time to go to my club; and poor Terry 
will wonder what has become of me.** 

Lord Colambre instantly offered to accompany his father ; 

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much to Lord Clonbrony’s, and more to Miss Nugent’s 
surprise. 

“What! ’’ said she to herself, “after so long an absence, 
leave me ! — Leave his mother, with whom he always used 
to stay — on purpose to avoid me ! What can I have done 
to displease him? It is clear it was not about Miss Broad- 
hurst’s marriage he was offended ; for he looked pleased, 
and like himself, whilst I was talking of that ; but the mo- 
ment afterwards, what a constrained, unintelligible ex- 
pression of countenance — and leaves me to go to a club 
which he detests! ’’ 

As the gentlemen shut the door on leaving the room. 
Lady Clonbrony wakened, and, starting up, exclaimed — 

“What’s the matter? Are they gone? Is Colambre 
gone? ’’ 

“Yes, ma’am, with my uncle.’’ 

“Very odd! very odd of him to go and leave me! he 
always used to stay with me — what did he say about me? ” 

“Nothing, ma’am.’’ 

“Well, then, I have nothing to say about him, or about 
anything, indeed, for I’m excessively tired and stupid — 
alone in Lon’on’s as bad as anywhere else. Ring the bell, 
and we’ll go to bed directly — if you have no objection, 
Grace. ’ ’ 

Grace made no objection; Lady Clonbrony went to bed 
and to sleep in ten minutes. Miss Nugent went to bed; 
but she lay awake, considering what could be the cause of 
her cousin Colambre’s hard unkindness, and of “his altered 
eye.’’ She was openness itself; and she determined that, 
the first moment she could speak to him alone, she would 
at once ask for an explanation. With this resolution, she 
rose in the morning, and went down to the breakfast-room, 
in hopes of meeting him, as it had formerly been his cus- 
tom to be early ; and she expected to find him reading in 
his usual place. 


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CHAPTER XIV. 

N O — Lord Colambre was not in his accustomed place, 
reading in the breakfast-room : nor did he make his 
appearance till both his father and mother had been 
some time at breakfast. 

“Good morning to you, my Lord Colambre,” said his 
mother, in a reproachful tone, the moment he entered ; 
“I am much obliged to you for your company last night.” 

“Good morning to you, Colambre,” said his father, in a 
more jocose tone of reproach; “I am obliged to you for 
your good company last night.” 

“Good morning to you, Lord Colambre,” said Miss 
Nugent; and though she endeavoured to throw all re- 
proach from her looks, and to let none be heard in her 
voice, yet there was a slight tremulous motion in that 
voice which struck our hero to the heart. 

“I thank you, ma’am, for missing me,” said he, address- 
ing himself to his mother; “I stayed away but half an 
hour; I accompanied my father to St. James’s Street, and 
when I returned I found that every one had retired to 
rest.” 

“Oh, was that the case? ” said Lady Clonbrony ; “I own 
I thought it very unlike you to leave me in that sort of 
way. 

“And, lest you should be jealous of that half-hour when 
he was accompanying me,” said Lord Clonbrony, “I must 
remark, that, though I had his body with me, I had none 
of his mind ; that he left at home with you ladies, or with 
some fair one across the water, for the deuce of two words 
did he bestow upon me, with all his pretence of accompany- 
ing me.” 

“Lord Colambre seems to have a fair chance of a pleasant 
breakfast,” said Miss Nugent, smiling; “reproaches on all 
sides.” 

“I have heard none on your side, Grace,” said Lord 
Clonbrony; “and that’s the reason, I suppose, he wisely 
takes his seat beside you. But, come, we will not badger 
you any more, my dear boy. We have given him as fine 

209 


14 


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a complexion amongst us as if he had been out hunting 
these three hours; have not we, Grace?’’ 

“When Colambre has been a season or two more in 
Lon’on, he’ll not be so easily put out of countenance,’’ 
said Lady Clonbrony ; ‘ ‘ you don’t see young men of fashion 
here blushing about nothing.’’ 

“No, nor about anything, my dear,’’ said Lord Clon- 
brony; “but that’s no proof they do nothing they ought 
to blush for.’’ 

“What they do, there’s no occasion for ladies to inquire,’’ 
said Lady Clonbrony; “but this I know, that it’s a great 
disadvantage to a young man of a certain rank to blush ; 
for no people, who live in a certain set, ever do ; and it is 
the most opposite thing possible to a certain air, which, I 
own, I think Colambre wants ; and now that he has done 
travelling in Ireland, which is no use in pint of giving a 
gentleman a travelled air, or anything of that sort, I hope 
he will put himself under my conduct for next winter’s 
campaign in town.’’ 

Lord Clonbrony looked as if he did not know how to 
look ; and, after drumming on the table for some seconds, 
said — 

“Colambre, I told you how it would be. That’s a fatal 
hard condition of yours.’’ 

“Not a hard condition, I hope, my dear father,’’ said 
Lord Colambre. 

“Hard it must be, since it can’t be fulfilled, or won’t be 
fulfilled, which comes to the same thing,’’ replied Lord 
Clonbrony, sighing. 

“I am persuaded, sir, that it will be fulfilled,’’ said Lord 
Colambre; “I am persuaded that, when my mother hears 
the truth, and the whole truth — when she finds that your 
happiness, and the happiness of her whole family, depend 
upon her yielding her taste on one subject ’’ 

“Oh, I see now what you are about,” cried Lady Clon- 
brony; “you are coming round with your persuasions and 
prefaces to ask me to give up Lon’on, and go back with 
you to Ireland, my lord. You may save yourselves the 
trouble, all of you, for no earthly persuasions shall make 


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me do it. I will never give up my taste on that phit. My 
happiness has a right to be as much considered as your 
father’s, Colambre, or anybody’s ; and, in one word, I 
won’t do it,” cried she, rising angrily from the breakfast- 
table. 

” There! did not I tell you how it would be?” cried 
Lord Clonbrony. 

“My mother has not heard me, yet,” said Lord Co- 
lambre, laying his hand upon his mother’s arm, as she 
attempted to pass; “hear me, madam, for your own sake. 
You do not know what will happen, this very day — this 
very hour, perhaps — if you do not listen to me.” 

“And what will happen?” said Lady Clonbrony, stop- 
ping short. 

“Ay, indeed; she little knows,” said Lord Clonbrony, 
“what’s hanging over her head.” 

“Hanging over my head?” said Lady Clonbrony, look- 
ing up; “nonsense! — what?.” 

“An execution, madam! ” said Lord Colambre. 

“Gracious me! an execution!” said Lady Clonbrony, 
sitting down again; “but I heard you talk of an execution 
months ago, my lord, before my son went to Ireland, and 
it blew over — I heard no more of it.” 

“It won’t blow over now,” said Lord Clonbrony; 
“you’ll hear more of it now. Sir Terence O’ Fay it was, 
you may remember, that settled it then.” 

“Well, and can’t he settle it now? Send for him, since 
he understands these cases ; and I will ask him to dinner 
myself, for your sake, and be very civil to him, my lord.” 

“All your civility, either for my sake or your own, will 
not signify a straw, my dear, in this case — anything that 
poor Terry could do, he’d do, and welcome, without it; 
but he can do nothing.” 

“Nothing! — that’s very extraordinary. But I’m clear 
no one dare to bring a real execution against us in earnest ; 
and you are only trying to frighten me to your purpose, 
like a child; but it shan’t do.” 

“Very well, my dear; you’ll see — too late.” 

A knock at the house door. 


21 1 


THE ABSENTEE 


“Who is it?— What is it?“ cried Lord Clonbrony, grow- 
ing very pale. 

Lord Colambre changed colour too, and ran downstairs. 
‘ ‘ Don’t let’em let anybody in, for your life, Colambre ; under 
any pretence,’’ cried Lord Clonbrony, calling from the 
head of the stairs; then running to the window, “By all 
that’s good, it’s Mordicai himself! and the people with 
him.’’ 

“Lean your head on me, my dear aunt,’’ said Miss 
Nugent. Lady Clonbrony leant back, trembling, and 
ready to faint. 

“But he’s walking off now; the rascal could not get in — 
safe for the present! ’’ cried Lord Clonbrony, rubbing his 
hands, and repeating, “safe for the present! ’’ 

“Safe for the present! ’’ repeated Lord Colambre, com- 
ing again into the room. “Safe for the present hour.’’ 

“He could not get in, I suppose — oh, I warned all the 
servants well,’’ said Lord Clonbrony, “and so did Terry. 
Ay, there ’s the rascal, Mordicai, walking off, at the end 
of the street; I know his walk a mile off. Gad! I can 
breathe again. I am glad he’s gone. But he will come 
back and always lie in wait, and some time or other, when 
we’re off our guard (unawares), he’ll slide in.’’ 

“Slide in! Oh, horrid! ’’ cried Lady Clonbrony, sitting 
up, and wiping away the water which Miss Nugent had 
sprinkled on her face. 

“Were you much alarmed?” said Lord Colambre, with 
a voice of tenderness, looking at his mother first, but his 
eyes fixing on Miss Nugent. 

“Shockingly!” said Lady Clonbrony; “I never thought 
it would reelly come to this.” 

“It will really come to much more, my dear,” said Lord 
Clonbrony, “that you may depend upon, unless you pre- 
vent it.” 

“Lord! what can I do? — I know nothing of business; 
how should I, Lord Clonbrony; but I know there’s Co- 
lambre — I was always told that when he was of age every- 
thing should be settled; and why can’t he settle it when 
he’s upon the spot? ” 


212 


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‘*And upon one condition, I will,” cried Lord Colambre; 
“at what loss to myself, my dear mother, I need not men- 
tion.” 

“Then I will mention it,” cried Lord Clonbrony; “at 
the loss it will be of nearly half the estate he would have 
had, if we had not spent it.” 

“Loss! Oh, I am excessively sorry my son’s to be at 
such a loss — it must not be.” 

“It cannot be otherwise,” said Lord Clonbrony; “nor 
it can’t be this way either, my Lady Clonbrony, unless 
you comply with his condition, and consent to return to 
Ireland.” 

“I cannot — I will not,” replied Lady Clonbrony. “Is 
this your condition, Colambre? — I take it exceedingly ill 
of you. I think it very unkind, and unhandsome, and un- 
generous, and undutiful of you, Colambre; you, my son 1 ” 
She poured forth a torrent of reproaches; then came to 
entreaties and tears. But our hero, prepared for this, had 
steeled his mind ; and he stood resolved not to indulge his 
own feelings, or to yield to caprice or persuasion, but to 
do that which he knew was best for the happiness of hund- 
reds of tenants who depended upon them — best for both 
his father and his mother’s ultimate happiness and respect- 
ability. 

“It’s all in vain,” cried Lord Clonbrony; “I have no 
resource but one, and I must condescend now to go to him 
this minute, for Mordicai will be back and seize all — I 
must sign and leave all to Garraghty.” 

“Well, sign, sign, my lord, and settle with Garraghty. — 
Colambre, I’ve heard all the complaints you brought over 
against that man. My lord spent half the night telling 
them to me ; but all agents are bad, I suppose ; at any rate 
I can’t help it — sign, sign, my lord; he has money — yes, 
do; go and settle with him, my lord.” 

Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent, at one and the same 
moment, stopped Lord Clonbrony as he was quitting the 
room, and then approached Lady Clonbrony with suppli- 
cating looks ; but she turned her head to the other side, 
and, as if putting away their entreaties, made a repelling 

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motion with both her hands, and exclaimed, “No, Grace 
Nugent!— no, Colambre— no — no, Colambre! Til never 
hear of leaving Lon’on — there’s no living out of Lon’on — 
I can’t, I won’t live out of Lon’on, I say.” 

Her son saw that the Londonomania was now stronger 
than ever upon her, but resolved to make one desperate 
appeal to her natural feelings, which, though smothered, 
he could not believe were wholly extinguished; he caught 
her repelling hands, and pressing them with respectful 
tenderness to his lips — 

‘ ‘ Oh, my dear mother, you once loved your son, ’ ’ said he ; 
“loved him better than anything in this world ; if one spark 
of affection for him remains, hear him.now, and forgive him, 
if he pass the bounds — bounds he never passed before — of 
filial duty. Mother, in compliance with your wishes my 
father left Ireland — left his home, his duties, his friends, 
his natural connexions, and for many years he has lived in 
England, and you have spent many seasons in London.” 

“Yes, in the very best company — in the very first 
circles,” said Lady Clonbrony; “cold as the high-bred 
English are said to be in general to strangers.” 

“Yes,” replied Lord Colambre; “the very best company 
(if you mean the most fashionable) have accepted of our 
entertainments. We have forced our way into their frozen 
circles ; we have been permitted to breathe in these ele- 
vated regions of fashion ; we have it to say, that the duke 
of this, and my lady that, are of our acquaintance. We 
may say more ; we may boast that we have vied with those 
whom we could never equal. And at what expense have 
we done all this? For a single season, the last winter (I 
will go no farther), at the expense of a great part of your 
timber, the growth of a century — swallowed in the enter- 
tainments of one winter in London ! Our hills to be bare 
for another half century to come ! But let the trees go ; I 
think more of your tenants — of those left under the tyranny 
of a bad agent, at the expense of every comfort, every 
hope they enjoyed! — tens^nts, who were thriving and pro- 
sperous; who used to smile upon you, and to bless you 
both! In one cottage, I have seen ” 

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Here Lord Clonbrony^ unable to restrain his emotion, 
hurried out of the room. 

“Then I am sure it is not my fault,” said Lady Clon- 
brony ; “for I brought my lord a large fortune; and I am 
confident I have not, after all, spent more any season, in 
the best company, than he has among a set of low people, 
in his muddling, discreditable way.” 

“And how has he been reduced to this? ” said Lord Co- 
lambre. “Did he not formerly live with gentlemen, his 
equals, in his own country; his contemporaries? Men of 
the first station and character, whom I met in Dublin, 
spoke of him in a manner that gratified the heart of his 
son ; he was respectable and respected at his own home ; 
but when he was forced away from that home, deprived 
of his objects, his occupations induced him to live in Lon- 
don, or at watering-places, where he could find no em-, 
ployments that were suitable to him — set down, late in 
life, in the midst of strangers, to him cold and reserved — 
himself too proud to bend to those who disdained him as 
an Irishman — is he not more to be pitied than blamed for 
— yes, I, his son, must say the word — the degradation 
which has ensued? And do not the feelings, which have 
this moment forced him to leave the room, show that he 
is capable? — Oh, mother! ” cried Lord Colambre, throwing 
himself at Lady Clonbrony’s feet, “restore my father to, 
himself ! Should such feelings be wasted? — No ; give them 
again to expand in benevolent, in kind, useful actions; 
give him again to his tenantry, his duties, his country, his 
home; return to that home yourself, dear mother! leave 
all the nonsense of high life — scorn the impertinence of 
these dictators of fashion, by whom, in return for all the 
pains we take to imitate, to court them — in return for the 
sacrifice of health, fortune, peace of mind, they bestow 
sarcasm, contempt, ridicule, and mimicry!” 

“Oh, Colambre! Colambre! mimicry — Til never believe 
it.” 

“Believe me — believe me, mother; for I speak of what 
I know. Scorn them — quit them! Return to an un- 
sophisticated people— to poor, but grateful hearts, still 

?I5 


THE ABSENTEE 


warm with the remembrance of your kindness, still bless- 
ing you for favours long since conferred, ever praying to 
see you once more. Believe me, for I speak of what I 
know — your son has heard these prayers, has felt these 
blessings. Here! at my heart felt, and still feel them, 
when I was not known to be your son, in the cottage of 
the widow O’Neill.” 

“Oh, did you see the widow O’Neill? and does she re- 
member me? ” said Lady Clonbrony. 

“Remember you! and you, Miss Nugent! I have slept 
in the bed — I would tell you more, but I cannot.” 

“Well! I never should have thought they would have 
remembered me so long! — poor people! ” said Lady Clon- 
brony. “I thought all in Ireland must have forgotten me, 
it is now so long since I was at home. 

“You are not forgotten in Ireland by any rank, I can 
answer for that. Return home, my dearest mother — let 
me see you once more among your natural friends, beloved, 
respected, happy ! ” 

“Oh, return! let us return home!” cried Miss Nugent, 
with a voice of great emotion. “Return, let us return 
home! My beloved aunt, speak to us! — say that you 
grant our request ! ’ ’ 

She kneeled beside Lord Colambre, as she spoke. 

“Is it possible to resist that voice — that look? ” thought 
Lord Colambre. 

“If anybody knew,” said Lady Clonbrony, “if anybody 
could conceive, how I detest the sight, the thoughts of 
that old yellow damask furniture, in the drawing-room at 
Clonbrony Castle ” 

“Good heavens! ” cried Lord Colambre, starting up, and 
looking at his mother in stupefied astonishment; “is that 
what you are thinking of, ma’am? ” 

“The yellow damask furniture! ” said her niece, smiling. 
“Oh, if that’s all, that shall never offend your eyes again. 
Aunt, my painted velvet chairs are finished ; and trust the 
furnishing that room to me. The legacy lately left me 
cannot be better applied — you shall see how beautifully it 
will be furnished.” 


216 


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“Oh, if I had money, I should like to do it myself; but 
it would take an immensity to new furnish Clonbrony 
Castle properly.” 

“The furniture in this house “ said Miss Nugent, 

looking round. 

“Would do a great deal towards it, I declare,” cried 
Lady Clonbrony; “that never struck me before, Grace, I 
protest — and what would not suit one might sell or ex- 
change here — and it would be a great amusement to me — 
and I should like to set the fashion of something better in 
that country. And I declare, now, I should like to see 
those poor people, and that widow O’Neill. I do assure 
you, I think I was happier at home; only, that one gets, 
I don’t know how, a notion one’s nobody out of Lon’on. 
But, after all, there’s many drawbacks in Lon’on — and 
many people are very impertinent. I’ll allow — and if 
there’s a woman in the world I hate, it is Mrs. Dareville — 
and, if I was leaving Lon’on, I should not regret Lady 
Langdale neither — and Lady St. James is as cold as a 
stone. Colambre may well say frozen circles — these sort 
of people are really very cold, and have, I do believe, no 
hearts. I don’t verily think there is one of them would 

regret me more Hey! let me see, Dublin — the winter 

— Merrion Square — new furnished — and the summer — 
Clonbrony Castle! ” 

Lord Colambre and Miss Nugent waited in silence till 
her mind should have worked itself clear. One great ob- 
stacle had been removed ; and now that the yellow damask 
had been taken out of her imagination, they no longer 
despaired. 

Lord Clonbrony put his head into the room. 

“What hopes? — any? if not, let me go.” 

He saw the doubting expression of Lady Clonbrony’s 
countenance — hope in the face of his son and niece. 

“My dear, dear Lady Clonbrony, make us all happy by 
one word,” said he, kissing her. 

“You never kissed me so since we left Ireland before,” 
said Lady Clonbrony. “Well, since it must be so, let us 
go,” said she. 


217 


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**Did I ever see such joy! said Lord Clonbrony, clasp- 
ing his hands; “I never expected such joy in my life! — I 
must go and tell poor Terry ! ” and off he ran. 

“And now, since we are to go,” said Lady Clonbrony, 
“pray let us go immediately, before the thing gets wind, 
else I shall have Mrs. Dareville, and Lady Langdale, and 
Lady St. James, and all the world, coming to condole with 
me, just to satisfy their own curiosity; and then Miss 
Pratt, who hears everything that everybody says, and 
more than they say, will come and tell me how it is re- 
ported everywhere that we are ruined. Oh ! I never could 
bear to stay and hear all this. Lll tell you what I’ll do — 
you are to be of age the day after to-morrow, Colambre — 
very well, there are some papers for me to sign^ — I must 
stay to put my name to them, and that done, that minute 
I’ll leave you and Lord Clonbrony to settle all the rest; 
and I’ll get into my carriage with Grace, and go down to 
Buxton again ; where you can come for me, and take me 
up, when you’re all ready to go to Ireland — and we shall 
be so far on our way. Colambre, what do you say to 
this? ” 

“That — if you like it, madam,” said he, giving one hasty 
glance at Miss Nugent, and withdrawing his eyes, “it is the 
best possible arrangement.” 

“So,” thought Grace, “that is the best possible arrange- 
ment which takes us away.” 

“If I like it!” said Lady Clonbrony; “to be sure I do, 
or I should not propose it. What is Colambre thinking 
of? I know, Grace, at all events, what you and I must 
think of— of having the furniture packed up, and settling 
what’s to go, and what’s to be exchanged, and all that. 
Now, my dear, go and write a note directly to Mr. Soho, 
and bid him come himself, immediately ; and we’ll go and 
make out a catalogue this instant of what furniture I will 
have packed.” 

So, with her head full of furniture. Lady Clonbrony re- 
tired. “I go to my business, Colambre; and I leave you 
to settle yours in peace.” 

In peace! — Never was our hero’s mind less at peace 
218 


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than at this moment. The more his heart felt that it was 
painful, the more his reason told him it was necessary that 
he should part from Grace Nugent. To his union with 
her there was an obstacle, which his prudence told him 
ought to be insurmountable ; yet he felt that, during the 
few days he had been with her, the few hours he had been 
near her, he had, with his utmost power over himself, 
scarcely been master of his passion, or capable of conceal- 
ing it from its object. It could not have been done but 
for her perfect simplicity and innocence. But how could 
this be supposed on his part? How could he venture to 
live with this charming girl? How could he settle at 
home? What resource? 

His mind turned towards the army; he thought that 
abroad, and in active life, he should lose all the painful 
recollections, and drive from his heart all the resentments, 
which could now be only a source of unavailing regret. 
But his mother — his mother, who had now yielded her own 
taste to his entreaties, for the good of her family — she ex- 
pected him to return and live with her in Ireland. Though 
not actually promised or specified, he knew that she took 
it for granted ; that it was upon this hope, this faith, she 
consented ; he knew that she would be shocked at the bare 
idea of his going into the army. There was one chance — 
our hero tried, at this moment, to think it the best possible 
chance — that Miss Nugent might marry Mr. Salisbury, and 
settle in England. On this idea he relied as the only means 
of extricating him from difficulties. 

It was necessary to turn his thoughts immediately to 
business, to execute his promises to his father. Two great 
objects were now to be accomplished — the payment of his 
father's debts, and the settlement of the Irish agent’s ac- 
counts; and, in transacting this complicated business, he 
derived considerable assistance from Sir Terence O’ Fay, 
and from Sir Arthur Berryl’s solicitor, Mr. Edwards. 
Whilst acting for Sir Arthur, on a former occasion. Lord 
Colambre had gained the entire confidence of this solicitor, 
who was a man of the first eminence. Mr. Edwards took 
the papers and Lord Clonbrony’s title-deeds home with 

219 


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him, saying that he would give an answer the next morn- 
ing. He then waited upon Lord Colambre, and informed 
him, that he had just received a letter from Sir Arthur 
Berryl, who, with the consent and desire of his lady, re- 
quested that whatever money might be required by Lord 
Clonbrony should be immediately supplied on their ac- 
count, without waiting till Lord Colambre should be of 
age, as the ready money might be of some convenience to 
him in accelerating the journey to Ireland, which Sir Arthur 
and Lady Berryl knew was his lordship’s object. Sir 
Terence O’ Fay now supplied Mr. Edwards with accurate 
information as to the demands that were made upon Lord 
Clonbrony, and of the respective characters of the creditors. 
Mr. Edwards undertook to settle with the fair claimants ; 
Sir Terence with the rogues; so that by the advancement 
of ready money from the Berryls, and by the detection of 
false and exaggerated charges, which Sir Terence made 
among the inferior class, the debts were reduced nearly to 
one half of their former amount. Mordicai, who had been 
foiled in his vile attempt to become sole creditor, had, 
however, a demand of more than seven thousand pounds 
upon Lord Clonbrony, which he had raised to this enorm- 
ous sum in six or seven years, by means well known to 
himself. He stood the foremost in the list, not from the 
greatness of the sum, but from the danger of his adding to 
it the expenses of law. Sir Terence undertook to pay the 
whole with five thousand pounds. Lord Clonbrony thought 
it impossible ; the solicitor thought it improvident, because 
he knew that upon a trial a much greater abatement would 
be allowed; but Lord Colambre was determined, from 
the present embarrassments of his own situation, to leave 
nothing undone that could be accomplished immediately. 

Sir Terence, pleased with his commission, immediately 
went to Mordicai. 

“Well, Sir Terence,’’ said Mordicai, “I hope you are 
come to pay me my hundred guineas; for Miss Broadhurst 
is married ! ” 

“Well, Mr. Mordicai, what then? The ides of March 
are come, but not gone ! Stay, if you plase. Mister Mor- 

220 


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dicai, till Lady-day, when it becomes due; in the mean- 
time, I have a handful, or rather an armful, of bank-notes 
for you, from my Lord Colambre." 

“Humph! ” said Mordicai; “how’s that? he’ll not be of 
age these three days.’’ 

“Don’t matter for that; he has sent me to look over 
your account, and to hope that you will make some small 
ABATEMENT in the total.’’ 

“Harkee, Sir Terence — you think yourself very clever 
in things of this sort, but you’ve mistaken your man; I 
have an execution for the whole, and I’ll be d — d if all 
your cunning shall MAKE me take up with part ! ’’ 

“Be asj/j Mister Mordicai! — you shan’t make me break 
your bones, nor make me drop one actionable word against 
your high character; for I know your clerk there, with that 
long goose-quill behind his ear, would be ready evidence 
again’ me. But I beg to know, in one word, whether you 
will take five thousand down, and give Lord Clonbrony a 
discharge?’’ 

“No, Mr. Terence! nor six thousand nine hundred and 
ninety-nine pounds. My demand is ^^7130, odd shillings: 
if you have that money, pay it ; if not, I know how to get 
it, and along with it complete revenge for all the insults I 
have received from that greenhorn, his son.’’ 

“Paddy Brady! ’’ cried Sir Terence, “do you hear that? 
Remember that word, revenge! — Mind, I call you to 
witness ! ’’ 

“What, sir, will you raise a rebellion among my work- 
men? ’’ 

“No, Mr. Mordicai, no rebellion; and I hope you won’t 
cut the boy’s ears off for listening to a little of the brogue 
— So listen, my good lad. Now, Mr. Mordicai, I offer 
you here, before little goose-quill, £^000 ready penny — 
take it, or leave it ; take your money, and leave your re- 
venge; or, take your revenge, and lose your money.’’ 

“Sir Terence, I value neither your threats nor your 
cunning. Good morning to you.’’ 

“Good morning to you, Mr. Mordicai — but not kindly! 
Mr. Edwards, the solicitor, has been at the office to take 


221 


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off the execution ; so now you may have law to your heart's 
content ! And it was only to plase the young lord that the 
otfld on& consented to my carrying this bundle to you,” — 
showing the bank-notes. 

“Mr. Edwards employed!” cried Mordicai. “Why, 
how the devil did Lord Clonbrony get into such hands as 
his? The execution taken off! Well, sir, go to law — I am 
ready for you; Jack Latitat IS A MATCH for your sober 
solicitor.” 

“Good morning again to you, Mr. Mordicai; we're 
fairly out of your clutches, and we have enough to do with 
our money.” 

“Well, Sir Terence, I must allow you have a very 

wheedling way Here, Mr. Thompson, make out a 

receipt for Lord Clonbrony : I never go to law with an old 
customer, if I can help it.” 

This business settled, Mr. Soho was next to be dealt 
with. 

He came at Lady Clonbrony’s summons; and was tak- 
ing directions, with the utmost sang froid, for packing up 
and sending off the very furniture for which he was not 
paid. 

Lord Colambre called him into his father’s study ; and, 
producing his bill, he began to point out various articles 
which were charged at prices that were obviously extrava- 
gant. 

“Why, really, my lord, they are abundantly extrava- 
gant ; if I charged vulgar prices, I should be only a vulgar 
tradesman. I, however, am not a broker, nor a Jew. Of 
the article superintendence, which is, only ;^5oo, I cannot 
abate a doit ; on the rest of the bill, if you mean to offer 
ready, I mean, without any negotiation, to abate thirty 
per cent; and I hope that is a fair and gentlemanly offer.” 

“Mr. Soho, there is your money! ” 

“My Lord Colambre! I would give the contents of 
three such bills to be sure of such noblemanly conduct as 
yours. Lady Clonbrony’s furniture shall be safely packed, 
without costing her a farthing.” 

With the help of Mr. Edwards, the solicitor, every other 


222 


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claim was soon settled ; and Lord Clonbrony, for the first 
time since he left Ireland, found himself out of debt, and 
out of danger. 

Old Nick’s account could not be settled in London. 
Lord Colambre had detected numerous false charges, and 
sundry impositions; the land, which had been purposely 
let to run wild, so far from yielding any rent, was made a 
source of constant expense, as remaining still unset: this 
was a large tract, for which St. Dennis had at length offered 
a small rent. 

Upon a fair calculation of the profits of the ground, 
and from other items in the account, Nicholas Garraghty, 
Esq., appeared at last to be, not the creditor, but the 
debtor to Lord Clonbrony. He was dismissed with dis- 
grace, which perhaps he might not have felt, if it had not 
been accompanied by pecuniary loss, and followed by the 
fear of losing his other agencies, and by the dread of im- 
mediate bankruptcy. 

Mr. Burke was appointed agent in his stead to the Clon- 
brony as well as the Colambre estate. His appointment 
was announced to him by the following letter: 

To Mrs. Burke, at Colambre. 


Dear Madam, 

The traveller whom you so hospitably received some months 
ago was Lord Colambre — he now writes to you in his proper 
person. He promised you that he would, as far as it might be 
in his power, do justice to Mr. Burke’s conduct and character, 
by representing what he had done for Lord Clonbrony in the 
town of Colambre, and in the whole management of the tenantry 
and property under his care. 

Happily for my father, my dear madam, he is now as fully 
convinced as you could wish him to be of Mr. Burke’s merits; 
and he begs me to express his sense of the obligations he is 
under to him and to you. He entreats that you will pardon the 
impropriety of a letter, which, as I assured you the moment I 
saw it, he never wrote or read. This will, he says, cure him, 
for life, of putting his signature to any paper without reading it. 

He hopes that you will forget that such a letter was ever 

223 


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received, and that you will use your influence with Mr. Burke to 
induce him to continue to our family his regard and valuable 
services. Lord Clonbrony encloses a power of attorney, en- 
abling Mr. Burke to act in future for him, if Mr. Burke will do 
him that favour, in managing the Clonbrony as well as the 
Colambre estate. 

Lord Clonbrony will be in Ireland in the course of next 
month, and intends to have the pleasure of soon paying his re- 
spects in person to Mr. Burke, at Colambre. — I am, dear 
madam, your obliged guest, and faithful servant, 

Colambre. 

Grosvenor Square, London. 

Lord Colambre was so continually occupied with business 
during the two days previous to his coming of age, every 
morning at his solicitor’s chambers, every evening in his 
father’s study, that Miss Nugent never saw him but at 
breakfast or dinner ; and, though she watched for it most 
anxiously, never could find an opportunity of speaking to 
him alone, or of asking an explanation of the change and 
inconsistencies of his manner. At last, she began to think 
that, in the midst of so much business of importance, by 
which he seemed harassed^ she should do wrong to torment 
him, by speaking of any small disquietude that concerned 
only herself. She determined to suppress her doubts, to 
keep her feelings to herself, and to endeavour, by constant 
kindness, to regain that place in his affections which she 
imagined that she had lost. “Everything will go right 
again,’’ thought she, “and we shall all be happy, when he 
returns with us to Ireland — to that dear home which he 
loves as well as I do ! “ 

The day Lord Colambre was of age, the first thing he 
did was to sign a bond for five thousand pounds. Miss 
Nugent’s fortune, which had been lent to his father, who 
was her guardian. 

“This, sir, I believe,*' said he, giving it to his father as 
soon as signed — “this, I believe, is the first debt you would 
wish to have secured.’* 

“Well thought of, my dear boy! — God bless you! — that 
has weighed more upon my conscience and heart than all 

224 


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the rest, though I never said anything about it. I used, 
whenever I met Mr. Salisbury, to wish myself fairly down 
at the centre of the earth; not that he ever thought of 
fortune, Fm sure; for he often told me, and I believed 
him, he would rather have Miss Nugent without a penny, 
if he could get her, than the first fortune in the empire. 
But Fm glad she will not go to him penniless, for all that; 
and by my fault, especially. There, there’s my name to 
it — do witness it, Terry. But, Colambre, you must give 
it to her — you must take it to Grace.” 

‘ ‘ Excuse me, sir ; it is no gift of mine — it is a debt of 
yours. I beg you will take the bond to her yourself, my 
dear father.” 

“My dear son, you must not always have your own way, 
and hide everything good you do, or give me the honour 
of it — I won’t be the jay in borrowed feathers. I have 
borrowed enough in my life, and Fve done with borrow- 
ing now, thanks to you, Colambre — so come along with 
me; for Fll be hanged if ever I give this joint bond to 
Miss Nugent, without you along with me. Leave Lady 
Clonbrony here to sign these papers. Terry will witness 
them properly, and you come along with me.” 

“And pray, my lord,” said her ladyship, “order the 
carriage to the door ; for, as soon as you have my signature, 
I hope you’ll let me off to Buxton.” 

“Oh, certainly — the carriage is ordered — everything 
ready, my dear.” 

“And pray tell Grace to be ready,” added Lady Clon- 
brony. 

“That’s not necessary; for she is always ready,” said 
Lord Clonbrony. “Come, Colambre,” added he, taking 
his son under the arm, and carrying him up to Miss 
Nugent’s dressing-room. 

They knocked, and were admitted. 

“Ready!” said Lord Clonbrony; “ay, always ready — 
so I said. Here’s Colambre, my darling,” continued he, 
“has secured your fortune to you to my heart’s content; 
but he would not condescend to come up to tell you so, 
till I made him. Here’s the bond; put your hand to it, 

225 


IS 


THE ABSENTEE 


Colambre ; you were ready enough to do that when it cost 
you something; and now, all I have to ask of you is, to 
persuade her to marry out of hand, that I may see her 
happy before I die. Now my heart’s at ease! I can meet 
Mr. Salisbury with a safe conscience. One kiss, my little 
Grace. If anybody can persuade you. I’m sure it’s that 
man that’s now leaning against the mantelpiece. It’s Co- 
lambre’s will, or your heart’s not made like mine — so I 
leave you.” 

And out of the room walked he, leaving his poor son in 
as awkward, embarrassing, and painful a situation, as could 
well be conceived. Half a dozen indistinct ideas crossed 
his mind; quick conflicting feelings made his heart beat 
and stop. And how it would have ended, if he had been 
left to himself, whether he would have stood or faflen, have 
spoken or have continued silent, can never now be known, 
for all was decided without the action of his will. He was 
awakened from his trance by these simple words from Miss 
Nugent — 

“I’m much obliged to you, cousin Colambre — more 
obliged to you for your kindness in thinking of me first, 
in the midst of all your other business, than by your secur- 
ing my fortune. Friendship — and your friendship — is 
worth more to me than fortune. May I believe that is 
secured? ” 

“Believe it! Oh, Grace, can you doubt it?” 

“I will not; it would make me too unhappy, I will 
not.” 

“You need not.” 

“That is enough — I am satisfied — I ask no further ex- 
planation. You are truth itself — one word from you is 
security sufficient. We are friends for life,” said she, 
taking his hand between both of hers; “are not we? ” 

“We are — and therefore sit down, cousin Grace, and let 
me claim the privilege of friendship, and speak to you of 
him who aspires to be more than your friend for life, 
Mr. ” 

“Mr. Salisbury!” said Miss Nugent; “I saw him yes- 
terday. We had a very long conversation ; I believe he 

226 


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understands my sentiments perfectly, and that he no longer 
thinks of being more to me than a friend for life.” 

“You have refused him ! ” 

“Yes. I have a high opinion of Mr. Salisbury's under- 
standing, a great esteem for his character; I like his 
manners and conversation; but I do not love him, and 
therefore, you know, I could not marry him.” 

“But, my dear Miss Nugent, with a high opinion, a 
great esteem, and liking his manners and conversation, in 
such a well-regulated mind as yours, can there be a better 
foundation for love?” 

“It is an excellent foundation,” said she; “but I never 
went any farther than the foundation; and, indeed, I 
never wished to proceed any farther.” 

Lord Colambre scarcely dared to ask why; but, after 
some pause, he said — 

“I don’t wish to intrude upon your confidence.” 

“You cannot intrude upon my confidence; I am ready 
to give it to you entirely, frankly ; I hesitated only because 
another person was concerned. Do you remember, at my 
aunt’s gala, a lady who danced with Mr. Salisbury?” 

“Not in the least.” 

“A lady with whom you and Mr. Salisbury were talking, * 
just before supper, in the Turkish tent.” 

“Not in the least.” 

“As we went down to supper, you told me you had had 
a delightful conversation with her — that you thought her a 
charming woman.” 

“A charming woman ! — I have not the slightest recollec- 
tion of her.” 

“And you told me that she and Mr. Salisbury had been 
praising me a V envie Vune et V autre,*' 

“Oh, I recollect her now perfectly,” said Lord Colambre; 
“but what of her? ” 

“She is the woman who, I hope, will be Mrs. Salis- 
bury. Ever since I have been acquainted with them 
both, I have seen that they were suited to each other; 
and fancy, indeed I am almost sure, that she could love 
him, tenderly love him — and, I know, I could not. But 

227 


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my own sentiments, you may be sure, are all I ever told 
Mr. Salisbury.** 

“But of your own sentiments you may not be sure,** 
said Lord Colambre; “and I see no reason why you should 
give him up from false generosity.** 

“Generosity?** interrupted Miss Nugent; “you totally 
misunderstand me ; there is no generosity, nothing for me 
to give up in the case. I did not refuse Mr. Salisbury 
from generosity, but because I did not love him. Perhaps 
my seeing this at first prevented me from thinking of him 
as a lover; but, from whatever cause, I certainly never 
felt love for Mr. Salisbury, nor any of that pity which is 
said to lead to love; perhaps,*’ added she, smiling, “be- 
cause I was aware that he would be so much better off 
after I refused him — so much happier with one suited to 
him in age, talents, fortune, and love — ‘What bliss, did he 
but know his bliss,* were his ! ** 

“Did he but know his bliss,** repeated Lord Colambre; 
“but is not he the best judge of his own bliss? ** 

“And am not I the best judge of mine? ’’ said Miss Nu- 
gent; “I go no farther.** 

“You are; and I have no right to go farther. Yet, this 
much permit me to say, my dear Grace, that it would give 
me sincere pleasure, that is, real satisfaction, to see you 
happily — established. * * 

“Thank you, my dear Lord Colambre; but you spoke 
that like a man of seventy at least, with the most solemn 
gravity of demeanour.** 

“I meant to be serious, not solemn,*' said Lord Colam- 
bre, endeavouring to change his tone. 

“There now,*’ said she, in a playful tone, “you have 
seriously accomplished the task my good uncle set you ; so 
I will report well of you to him, and certify that you did 
all that in you lay to exhort me to marry ; that you have 
even assured me that it would give you sincere pleasure, 
that is, real satisfaction, to see me happily established.’* 
“Oh, Grace, if you knew how much I felt when I said 
that, you would spare this raillery.** 

“I will be serious — I am most seriously convinced of the 
228 


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sincerity of your affection for me ; I know my happiness is 
your object in all you have said, and I thank you from my 
heart for the interest you take about me. But really and 
truly, I do not wish to marry. This is not a mere com- 
monplace speech ; but I have not yet seen any man I could 
love. I like you, cousin Colambre, better than Mr. Salis- 
bury — I would rather live with you than with him; you 
know that is a certain proof that I am not likely to be in 
love with him. I am happy as I am, especially now we 
are all going to dear Ireland, home, to live together: you 
cannot conceive with what pleasure I look forward to 
that.” 

Lord Colambre was not vain ; but love quickly sees love 
where it exists, or foresees the probability, the possibility 
of its existence. He saw that Miss Nugent might love 
him tenderly, passionately ; but that duty, habit, the pre- 
possession that it was impossible she could marry her cousin 
Colambre — a prepossession instilled into her by his mother 
— had absolutely prevented her from ever yet thinking of 
him as a lover. He saw the hazard for her, he felt the 
danger for himself. Never had she appeared to him so 
attractive as at this moment, when he felt the hope that he 
could obtain return of love. 

“But St. Omar! — Why! why is she a St. Omar! — illegi- 
timate ! — ‘ No St. Omar sans reproche. ' My wife she cannot 
be — I will not engage her affections.” 

Swift as thoughts in moments of strong feeling pass in 
the mind without being put into words, our hero thought 
all this, and determined, cost what it would, to act honour- 
ably. 

“You spoke of my returning to Ireland, my dear Grace. 
I have not yet told you my plans.” 

“Plans! are not you returning with us?” said she, pre- 
cipitately; “are not you going to Ireland — home — with 
us? ” 

“No — I am going to serve a campaign or two abroad. 
I think every young man in these times ” 

‘ ‘ Good heavens ! What does this mean ? What can you 
mean? ” cried sJie, fixing her eyes upon his, as if she would 

229 


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read his very soul. “Why? what reason? — Oh, tell me the 
truth — and at once.” 

His change of colour — his hand that trembled, and with- 
drew from hers — the expression of his eyes as they met hers 
— revealed the truth to her at once. As it flashed across 
her mind, she started back ; her face grew crimson, and, in 
the same instant, pale as death. 

“Yes — you see, you feel the truth now,” said Lord 
Colambre. “You see, you feel, that I love you — passion- 
ately.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, let me not hear it ! ” said she ; “ I must not — ought 
not. Never, till this moment, did such a thought cross my 
mind — I thought it impossible — oh, make me think so 
still.” 

“I will — it is impossible that we can ever be united.” 

“I always thought so,” said she, taking breath with a 
deep sigh. “Then why not live as we have lived?” 

“I cannot — I cannot answer for myself — I will not run 
the risk; and therefore I must quit you — knowing, as I do, 
that there is an invincible obstacle to our union, of what 
nature I cannot explain; I beg you not to inquire.” 

“You need not beg it — I shall not inquire — I have no 
curiosity — none,” said she, in a passive, dejected tone; 
“that is not what I am thinking of in the least. I know 
there are invincible obstacles; I wish it to be, so. But, if 
invincible, you who have so much sense, honour, and 
virtue ” 

“I hope, my dear cousin, that I have honour and virtue. 
But there are temptations to which no wise, no good man 
will expose himself. Innocent creature! you do not know 
the power of love. I rejoice that you have always thought 

it impossible — think so still — it will save you from all I 

must endure. Think of me but as your cousin, your friend 
—give your heart to some happier man. As your friend, 
your true friend, I conjure you, give your heart to some 
more fortunate man. Marry, if you can feel love— marry, 
and be happy. Honour! virtue! Yes, I have both, and I 
will not forfeit them. Yes, I will merit your esteem and 
my own— by actions, not words; and I give you the 

230 





‘As it flashed across her mind, she started back ; her face grew 
crimson, and, in the same instant, pale as death.’ 



THE ABSENTEE 


strongest proof, by tearing myself from you at this mo- 
ment. Farewell!” 

“The carriage at the door, Miss Nugent, and my lady 
calling for you,” said her maid. “Here’s your key, 
ma’am, and here’s your gloves, my dear ma’am.” 

“The carriage at the door. Miss Nugent,” said Lady 
Clonbrony’s woman, coming eagerly with parcels in her 
hand, as Miss Nugent passed her and ran downstairs; 
“and I don’t know where I laid my lady’s numbrella, for 
my life — do you, Anne?” 

“No, indeed — but I know here’s my own young lady’s 
watch that she has left. Bless me ! I never knew her to 
forget anything on a journey before.” 

“Then she is going to be married, as sure as my name’s 
Le Maistre, and to my Lord Colambre; for he has been 
here this hour, to my certain Bible knowledge. Oh, you’ll 
see, she will be Lady Colambre.” 

“I wish she may, with all my heart,” said Anne; “but 
I must run down— they’re waiting.” 

“Oh no,” said Mrs. le Maistre, seizing Anne’s arm, and 
holding her fast; “stay — you may safely — for they’re all 
kissing and taking leave, and all that, you know ; and my 
lady is talking on about Mr. Soho, and giving a hundred 
directions about legs of tables^ and so forth, I warrant — 
she’s always an hour after she’s ready before she gets in — 
and I’m looking for the numbrella. So stay, and tell me 
— Mrs. Petito wrote over word it was to be Lady Isabel; 
and then a contradiction came — it was turned into the 
youngest of the Killpatricks ; and now here he’s in Miss 
Nugent’s dressing-room to the last moment. Now, in my 
opinion, that am not censorious, this does not look so 
pretty ; but, according to my verdict, he is only making a 
fool of Miss Nugent, like the rest; and his lordship seems 
too like what you might call a male cocket^ or a masculine 
jilt.” 

“No more like a masculine jilt than yourself, Mrs. le 
Maistre,” cried Anne, taking fire. “And my young lady 
is not a lady to be made a fool of, I promise you ; nor is 
my lord likely to make a fool of any woman.” 

23I' 


THE ABSENTEE 


“Bless us all ! that’s no great praise for any young noble- 
man, Miss Anne.” 

“Mrs. le Maistre! Mrs. le Maistre! are you above?” 
cried a footman from the bottom of the stairs; “my lady's 
calling for you.” 

“Very well! very well!” said sharp Mrs. le Maistre; 
“very well ! and if she is — manners, sir! — Come up for one, 
can’t you, and don’t stand bawling at the bottom of the 
stairs, as if one had no ears to be saved. I’m coming as 
fast as I conveniently can.” Mrs. le Maistre stood in the 
doorway, so as to fill it up, and prevent Anne from passing. 

“Miss Anne! Miss Anne! Mrs. le Maistre!” cried 
another footman; “my lady’s in the carriage, and Miss 
Nugent.” 

“Miss Nugent! — is she?” cried Mrs. le Maistre, running 
downstairs, followed by Anne. “Now, for the world in 
pocket-pieces wouldn’t I have missed seeing him hand Miss 
Nugent in; for by that I could have judged definitively.” 

“My lord, I beg pardon! — I’m afeard I’m late,” said 
Mrs. le Maistre, as she passed Lord Colambre, who was 
standing motionless in the hall. “I beg a thousand par- 
dons; but I was hunting high and low, for my lady’s 
numbrella. ’ ’ 

Lord Colambre did not hear or heed her ; his eyes were 
fixed, and they never moved. 

Lord Clonbrony was at the open carriage-door, kneeling 
on the step, and receiving Lady Clonbrony ’s “more last 
words” for Mr. Soho. The two waiting-maids stood to- 
gether on the steps. 

“Look at our young lord, how he stands,” whispered 
Mrs. le Maistre to Anne, “the image of despair! And 
she, the picture of death!— I don’t know what to think.” 

“Nor I; but don’t stare if you can help it,” said Anne. 
“Get in, get in, Mrs. le Maistre,” added she, as Lord 
Clonbrony now rose from the step, and made way for 
them. 

“Ay, in with you — in with you, Mrs. le Maistre,” said 
Lord Clonbrony. “Good-bye to you, Anne, and take care 
of your young mistress at Buxton ; let me see her bloom. 

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ing when we meet again ; I don’t half like her looks, and I 
never thought Buxton agreed with her.” 

“Buxton never did anybody harm/’ said Lady Clon- 
brony ; “and as to bloom, I’m sure, if Grace has not bloom 
enough in her cheeks this moment to please you, I don’t 
know what you’d have, my dear lord — Rouge? — Shut the 
door, John! Oh, stay! — Colambre! Where upon earth’s 
Colambre? ’’ cried her ladyship, stretching from the farthest 
side of the coach to the window. — “Colambre! ’’ 

Colambre was forced to appear. 

“Colambre, my dear! I forgot to say that, if anything 
detains you longer than Wednesday se’nnight, I beg you 
will not fail to write, or I shall be miserable.’’ 

“I will write; at all events, my dearest mother, you 
shall hear from me.’’ 

“Then I shall be quite happy. Go on! ’* 

The carriage drove on. 

“I do believe Colambre’s ill; I never saw a man look so 
ill in my life — did you, Grace? — as he did the minute we 
drove on. He should take advice. I’ve a mind,’’ cried 
Lady Clonbrony, laying her hand on the cord to stop the 
coachman — “I’ve a mind to turn about, tell him so, and 
ask what is the matter with him.’’ 

‘ ‘ Better not ! ’ ’ said Miss Nugent ; “ he will write to you, 
and tell you — if anything is the matter with him. Better 
go on now to Buxton! ’’ continued she, scarcely able to 
speak. Lady Clonbrony let go the cord. 

“But what is the matter with you, my dear Grace? for 
you are certainly going to die too! ’’ 

“I will tell you — as soon as I can; but don’t ask me 
now, my dear aunt ! ’’ 

“Grace, Grace! pull the cord!’’ cried Lady Clonbrony 

— “Mr. Salisbury’s phaeton ! Mr. Salisbury, I’m happy 

to see you ! We’re on our way to Buxton — as I told 
you.’’ 

“So am I,’’ said Mr. Salisbury. “I hope to be there 
before your ladyship ; will you honour me with any com- 
mands? — of course, I will see that everything is ready for 
your reception.” 


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Her ladyship had not any commands. Mr. Salisbury 
drove on rapidly. 

Lady Clonbrony's ideas had now taken the Salisbury 
channel. 

“You didn’t know that Mr. Salisbury was going to Bux- 
ton to meet you, did you, Grace?’’ said Lady Clonbrony. 

“No, indeed, I did not!’’ said Miss Nugent; “and I am 
very sorry for it.’’ 

“Young ladies, as Mrs. Broadhurst says, ‘never know, 
or at least never tell, what they are sorry or glad for,’ 
replied Lady Clonbrony. “At all events, Grace, my love, 
it has brought the fine bloom back to your cheeks ; and I 
own I am satisfied.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

G one l for ever gone from me 1 ” said Lord Colambre 
to himself, as the carriage drove away. “Never 
shall I see her more — never will I see her more, 
till she is married.” 

Lord Colambre went to his own room, locked the door, 
and was relieved in some degree by the sense of privacy; 
by the feeling that he could now indulge his reflections 
undisturbed. He had consolation — he had done what was 
honourable — he had transgressed no duty, abandoned no 
principle — he had not injured the happiness of any human 
being — he had not, to gratify himself, hazarded the peace 
of the woman he loved — he had not sought to win her 
heart. Of her innocent, her warm, susceptible heart, he 
might perhaps have robbed her — he knew it — but he had 
left it untouched, he hoped entire, in her own power, to 
bless with it hereafter some man worthy of her. In the 
hope that she might be happy. Lord Colambre felt relief ; 
and in the consciousness that he had made his parents 
happy, he rejoiced. But, as soon as his mind turned that 
way for consolation, came the bitter concomitant reflec- 
tion, that his mother must be disappointed in her hopes of 
his accompanying her home, and of his living with her in 

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Ireland ; she would be miserable when she should hear that 
he was going abroad into the army — and yet it must be so 
— and he must write, and tell her so. “The sooner this 
difficulty is off my mind, the sooner this painful letter is 
written, the better,” thought he. “It must be done — I 
will do it immediately.” 

He snatched up his pen, and began a letter. 

“My dear mother — Miss Nugent ” 

He was interrupted by a knock at his door. 

“A gentleman below, my lord,” said a servant, “who 
wishes to see you.” 

“I cannot see any gentleman. Did you say I was at 
home? ” 

“No, my lord; I said you was not at home; for I 
thought you would not choose to be at home, and your 
own man was not in the way for me to ask — so I denied 
you ; but the gentleman would not be denied ; he said I 
must come and see if you was at home. So, as he spoke 
as if he was a gentleman not used to be denied, I thought 
it might be somebody of consequence, and I showed him 
into the front drawing-room. I think he said he was sure 
you’d be at home for a friend from Ireland.” 

“A friend from Ireland! Why did not you tell me that 
sooner?” said Lord Colambre, rising, and running down- 
stairs. “Sir James Brooke, I daresay.” 

No, not Sir James Brooke; but one he was almost as 
glad to see — Count O’Halloran! 

“My dear count! the greater pleasure for being unex- 
pected.” 

“I came to London but yesterday,” said the count; 
“but I could not be here a day, without doing myself the 
honour of paying my respects to Lord Colambre.” 

“You do me not only honour, but pleasure, my dear 
count. People when they like one another, always find 
each other out, and contrive to meet even in London.” 

“You are too polite to ask what brought such a super- 
annuated militaire as I am,” said the count, “from his 
retirement into this gay world again. A relation of mine, 
who is one of our Ministry, knew that I had some maps, 

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and plans, and charts, which might be serviceable in an 
expedition they are planning. I might have trusted my 
charts across the channel, without coming myself to con- 
voy them, you will say. But my relation fancied — young 
relations, you know, if they are good for anything, are apt 
to overvalue the heads of old relations — fancied that mine 
was worth bringing all the way from Halloran Castle to 
London, to consult with tete-a-tSte, So you know, when 
this was signified to me by a letter from the secretary in 
office, private^ most confidential, what could I do, but do 
myself the honour to obey? For though honour’s voice 
cannot provoke the silent dust, yet ‘flattery soothes the 
dull cold ear of age .' — But enough, and too much of my- 
self,” said the count: “tell me, my dear lord, something 
of yourself. I do not think England seems to agree with 
you so well as Ireland ; for, excuse me, in point of health, 
you don’t look like the same man I saw some weeks ago.” 

“My mind has been ill at ease of late,” said Lord Colam- 
bre. 

“Ay, there’s the thing! The body pays for the mind — 
but those who have feeling minds, pain and pleasure alto- 
gether computed, have the advantage; or at least they 
think so ; for they would not change with those who have 
them not, were they to gain by the bargain the most 
robust body that the most selfish coxcomb, or the heaviest 
dunce extant, ever boasted. For instance, would you 
now, my lord, at this moment change altogether with 
Major Benson, or Captain Williamson, or even our friend, 
‘Eh, really now, ’pon honour’ — would you? — I’m glad to 
see you smile.” 

“I thank you for making me smile, for I assure you I 
want it. I wish — if you would not think me encroaching 
upon your politeness and kindness in honouring me with 

this visit . You see,” continued he, opening the doors 

of the back drawing-room, and pointing to large packages — 
“you see we are all preparing for a march ; my mother has 
left town half an hour ago — my father engaged to dine 
abroad — only I at home — and, in this state of confusion,- 
could I even venture to ask Count O’Halloran to stay and 

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dine with me, without being able to offer him Irish orto- 
lans or Irish plums — in short, will you let me rob you of 
two or three hours of your time? I am anxious to have 
your opinion on a subject of some importance to me, and 
on one where you are peculiarly qualified to judge and 
decide for me.” 

“My dear lord, frankly, I have nothing half so good or 
SO agreeable to do with my time ; command my hours. I 
have already told you how much it flatters me to be con- 
sulted by the most helpless clerk in office; how much more 
about the private concerns of an enlightened young — 
friend, will Lord Colambre permit me to say? I hope so; 
for though the length of our acquaintance might not justify 
the word, yet regard and intimacy are not always in pro- 
portion to the time people have known each other, but to 
their mutual perception of certain attaching qualities, a 
certain similarity and suitableness of character. “ 

The good count, seeing that Lord Colambre was in much 
distress of mind, did all he could to soothe him by kind- 
ness ; far from making any difficulty about giving up a few 
hours of his time, he seemed to have no other object in 
London, and no purpose in life, but to attend to our hero. 
To put him at ease, and to give him time to recover and 
arrange his thoughts, the count talked of indifferent sub- 
jects. 

“I think I heard you mention the name of Sir James 
Brooke.” 

“Yes, I expected to have seen him when the servant first 
mentioned a friend from Ireland; because Sir James had 
told me that, as soon as he could get leave of absence, he 
would come to England.” 

“He is come; is now at his estate in Huntingdonshire; 
doing, what do you think? I will give you a leading hint ; 
recollect the seal which the little De Cresey put into your 
hands the day you dined at Oranmore. Faithful to his 
motto, 'Deeds not words,’ he is this instant, I believe, at 
deeds, title-deeds; making out marriage settlements, get- 
ting ready to put his seal to the happy articles.” 

“Happy man! I give him joy,” said Lord Colambre; 

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“happy man! going to be married to such a woman — 
daughter of such a mother.” 

“Daughter of such a mother! That is indeed a great 
addition and a great security to his happiness,” said the 
count. “Such a family to marry into; good from genera- 
tion to generation ; illustrious by character as well as by 
genealogy; ‘all the sons brave, and all the daughters 
chaste.’” — Lord Colambre with difficulty repressed his 
feelings. — “If I could choose, I would rather that a wo- 
man I loved were of such a family than that she had for 
her dower the mines of Peru.” 

“So would I,” cried Lord Colambre. 

“I am glad to hear you say so, my lord, and with such 
energy ; so few young men of the present day look to what 
I call good connexion. In marrying, a man does not, to 
be sure, marry his wife’s mother; and yet a prudent man, 
when he begins to think of the daughter, would look sharp 
at the mother ; ay, and back to the grandmother too, and 
along the whole female line of ancestry.” 

“True — most true — he ought — he must.” 

“And I have a notion,” said the count, smiling, “your 
lordship’s practice has been conformable to your theory.” 

“I ! — mine! ” said Lord Colambre, starting, and looking 
at the count with surprise. 

“I beg your pardon,” said the count; “I did not intend 
to surprise your confidence. But you forget that I was 
present, and saw the impression which was made on your 
mind by a mother’s want of a proper sense of delicacy and 
propriety — Lady Dashfort. ” 

“Oh, Lady Dashfort! she was quite out of my head.” 

“And Lady Isabel? — I hope she is quite out of your 
heart.” 

“She never was in it,” said Lord Colambre. 

“Only laid siege to it,” said the count. “Well, I am 
glad your heart did not surrender at discretion, or rather 
without discretion. Then I may tell you, without fear or 
preface, that the Lady Isabel, who ‘talks of refinement, 
delicacy, sense,’ is going to stoop at once, and marry— 
Heathcock.” 


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Lord Colambre was not surprised, but concerned and 
disgusted, as he always felt, even when he did not care for 
the individual, from hearing anything which tended to 
lower the female sex in public estimation. 

“As to myself,” said he, “I cannot say I have had an 
escape, for I don’t think I ever was in much danger.” 

“It is difficult to measure danger when it is over — past 
danger, like past pain, is soon forgotten,” said the old 
general. “At all events, I rejoice in your present safety.” 

“But is she really going to be married to Heathcock?” 
said Lord Colambre. 

“Positively; they all came over in the same packet with 
me, and they are all in town now, buying jewels, and 
equipages, and horses. Heathcock, you know, is as good 
as another man, h pen prh, for all those purposes; his 
father is dead, and left him a large estate. Que voulez 
vous ? as the French valet said to me on the occasion. 
C 'est que monsieur est un homme de bien : il a des bienSy be 
ce qu on dit^ 

Lord Colambre could not help smiling. 

“How they got Heathcock to fall in love is what puzzles 
me,” said his lordship. “I should as soon have thought 
of an oyster’s falling in love as that being! ” 

“I own I should have sooner thought,” replied the 
count, “of his falling in love with an oyster; and so would 
you, if you had seen him, as I did, devouring oysters on 
shipboard. 

” Say, can the lovely heroine hope to vie 
With a fat turtle or a ven’son pie ? 

But that is not our affair; let the Lady Isabel look to it.” 

Dinner was announced ; and no farther conversation of 
any consequence passed between the count and Lord Co- 
lambre till the cloth was removed and the servants had 
withdrawn. Then our hero opened on the subject which 
was heavy at his heart. 

“My dear count — to go back to the burial-place of the 
NugentSy where my head was lost the first time I had the 
pleasure of seeing you — you know, or, possibly,” said he, 

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smiling, **you do not know, that I have a cousin of the 
name of Nugent? ” 

“You told me,” replied the count, “that you had near 
relations of that name; but I do not recollect that you 
mentioned any one in particular.” 

“I never named Miss Nugent to you. No ! it is not easy 
to me to talk of her, and impossible to me to describe her. 
If you had come one half-hour sooner this morning, you 
would have seen her: I know she is exactly suited to your 
excellent taste. But it is not at first sight she pleases 
most; she gains upon the affections, attaches the heart, 
and unfolds upon the judgment. In temper, manners, 
and good sense, in every quality a man can or should de- 
sire in a wife, I never saw her equal. Yet, there is an ob- 
stacle, an invincible obstacle, the nature of which I cannot 
explain to you, that forbids me to think of her as a wife. 
She lives with my father and mother: they are returning 
to Ireland. I wished, earnestly wished, on many accounts, 
to have accompanied them, chiefly on my mother’s; but it 
cannot be. The first thing a man must do is to act hon- 
ourably ; and, that he may do so, he must keep out of the 
way of a temptation which he believes to be above his 
strength. I will never see Miss Nugent again till she is 
married ; I must either stay in England, or go abroad. I 
have a mind to serve a campaign or two, if I could get a 
commission in a regiment going to Spain ; but I understand 
so many are eager to go at this moment, that it is very 
difficult to get a commission in such a regiment.” 

“It is difficult,” said the count. “But,” added he, after 
thinking for a moment, “I have it! I can get the thing 
done for you, and directly. Major Benson, in consequence 
of that affair, you know, about his mistress, is forced to 
quit the regiment. When the lieutenant-colonel came to 
quarters, and the rest of the officers heard the fact, they 
would not keep company with Benson, and would not mess 
with him. I know he wants to sell out ; and that regiment 
is to be ordered immediately to Spain, I will have the 
thing done for you, if you request it.” 

“First, give me your advice. Count O’Halloran; you 


2An 


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are well acquainted with the military profession, with mili- 
tary life. Would you advise me — I won’t speak of myself, 
because we judge better by general views than by particu- 
lar cases — would you advise a young man at present to go 
into the army? ” 

The count was silent for a few minutes, and then re- 
plied: “Since you seriously ask my opinion, my lord, I 
must lay aside my own prepossessions, and endeavour to 
speak with impartiality. To go into the army in these 
days, my lord, is, in my sober opinion, the most absurd 
and base, or the wisest and noblest thing a young man can 
do. To enter into the army, with the hope of escaping 
from the application necessary to acquire knowledge, let- 
ters, and science — I run no risk, my lord, in saying this to 
you — to go into the army, with the hope of escaping from 
knowledge, letters, science, and morality; to wear a red 
coat and an epaulette ; to be called captain ; to figure at a 
ball; to lounge away time in country sports, at country 
quarters, was never, even in times of peace, creditable; 
but it is now absurd and base. Submitting to a certain 
portion of ennui and contempt, this mode of life for an 
officer was formerly practicable — but now cannot be sub- 
mitted to without utter, irremediable disgrace. Officers are 
now, in general, men of education and information ; want 
of knowledge, sense, manners, must consequently be im- 
mediately detected, ridiculed, and despised in a military 
man. Of this we have not long since seen lamentable ex- 
amples in the raw officers who have lately disgraced them- 
selves in my neighbourhood in Ireland — that Major Benson 
and Captain Williamson. But I will not advert to such 
insignificant individuals, such are rare exceptions — I leave 
them out of the question — I reason on general principles. 
The life of an officer is not now a life of parade, of cox- 
combical, or of profligate idleness — but of active service, 
of continual hardship and danger. All the descriptions 
which we see in ancient history of a soldier’s life — descrip- 
tions which, in times of peace, appeared like romance — are 
now realised ; military exploits fill every day’s newspapers, 
every day’s conversation. A martial spirit is now essential 

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to the liberty and the existence of our own country. In 
the present state of things, the military must be the most 
honourable profession, because the most useful. Every 
movement of an army is followed, wherever it goes, by the 
public hopes and fears. Every officer must now feel, be- 
sides this sense of collective importance, a belief that his 
only dependence must be on his own merit — and thus his 
ambition, his enthusiasm, are raised ; and when once this 
noble ardour is kindled in the breast, it excites to exertion, 
and supports under endurance. But I forget myself,” said 
the count, checking his enthusiasm; “I promised to speak 
soberly. If I have said too much, your own good sense, 
my lord, will correct me, and your good-nature will forgive 
the prolixity of an old man, touched upon his favourite 
subject — the passion of his youth.” 

Lord Colambre, of course, assured the count that he was 
not tired. Indeed, the enthusiasm with which this old 
officer spoke of his profession, and the high point of view 
in which he placed it, increased our hero’s desire to serve a 
campaign abroad. Good sense, politeness, and experience 
of the world preserved Count O’Halloran from that foible 
with which old officers are commonly reproached, of talk- 
ing continually of their own military exploits. Though 
retired from the world, he had contrived, by reading the 
best books, and corresponding with persons of good in- 
formation, to keep up with the current of modern affairs; 
and he seldom spoke of those in which he had been formerly 
engaged. He rather too studiously avoided speaking of 
himself ; and this fear of egotism diminished the peculiar 
interest he might have inspired : it disappointed curiosity, 
and deprived those with whom he conversed of many enter- 
taining and instructive anecdotes. However, he sometimes 
made exceptions to his general rule in favour of persons 
who peculiarly pleased him, and Lord Colambre was of 
this number. 

He this evening, for the first time, spoke to his lordship 
of the years he had spent in the Austrian service ; told him 
anecdotes of the emperor; spoke of many distinguished 
public characters whom he had known abroad; of those 

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officers who had been his friends and companions. Among 
others he mentioned, with particular regard, a young Eng- 
lish officer who had been at the same time with him in the 
Austrian service, a gentleman of the name of Reynolds. 

The name struck Lord Colambre; it was the name of 
the officer who had been the cause of the disgrace of Miss 
St. Omar — of Miss Nugent's mother. “But there are so 
many Reynoldses.” 

He eagerly asked the age — the character of this officer. 

“He was a gallant youth,” said the count, “but too ad- 
venturous — too rash. He fell, after distinguishing himself 
in a glorious manner, in his twentieth year — died in my 
arms. ’ ’ 

“Married or unmarried?” cried Lord Colambre. 

“Married — he had been privately married, less than a 
year before his death, to a very young English lady, who 
had been educated at a convent in Vienna. He was heir 
to a considerable property, I believe, and the young lady 
had little fortune; and the affair was kept secret from the 
fear of offending his friends, or for some other reason — I 
do not recollect the particulars.” 

“Did he acknowledge his marriage?” said Lord Co- 
lambre. 

“Never till he was dying — then he confided his secret to 
me.” 

“Do you recollect the name of the young lady he 
married ? ’ ' 

“Yes — a Miss St. Omar.” 

“St. Omar! ” repeated Lord Colambre, with an expres- 
sion of lively joy in his countenance. “But are you cer- 
tain, my dear count, that she was really married, legally 
married, to Mr. Reynolds? Her marriage has been denied 
by all his friends and relations — hers have never been able 

to establish it— her daughter is My dear count, were 

you present at the marriage? ” 

“No,” said the count, “I was not present at the mar- 
riage ; I never saw the lady, nor do I know anything of 
the affair, except that Mr. Reynolds, when he was dying, 
assured me that he was privately married to a Miss St. 

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Omar, who was then boarding at a convent in Vienna. 
The young man expressed great regret at leaving her 
totally unprovided for; but said that he trusted his father 
would acknowledge her, and that her friends would be 
reconciled to her. He was not of age, he said, to make a 
will; but I think he told me that his child, who at that 
time was not born, would, even if it should be a girl, in- 
herit a considerable property. With this, I cannot, how- 
ever, charge my memory positively ; but he put a packet 
into my hands which, he told me, contained a certificate of 
his marriage, and, I think he said, a letter to his father; 
this he requested that I would transmit to England by some 
safe hand. Immediately after his death, I went to the 
English ambassador, who was then leaving Vienna, and 
delivered the packet into his hands ; he promised to have 
it safely delivered. I was obliged to go the next day, with 
the troops, to a distant part of the country. When I re- 
turned, I inquired at the convent what had become of Miss 
St. Omar — I should say Mrs. Reynolds; and I was told 
that she had removed from the convent to private lodgings 
in the town, some time previous to the birth of her child. 
The abbess seemed much scandalised by the whole trans- 
action ; and I remember I relieved her mind by assuring 
her that there had been a regular marriage. For poor 
young Reynolds’s sake, Tmade further inquiries about the 
widow, intending, of course, to act as a friend, if she was 
in any difficulty or distress. But I found, on inquiry at 
her lodgings, that her brother had come from England for 
her, and had carried her and her infant away. The active 
scenes,” continued the count, “in which I was immediately 
afterwards engaged, drove the whole affair from my mind. 
Now that your questions have recalled them, I feel certain 
of the facts I have mentioned ; and I am ready to establish 
them by my testimony.” 

Lord Colambre thanked him with an eagerness that 
showed how much he was interested in the event. It was 
clear, he said, either that the packet left with the ambas- 
sador had not be^n delivered, or that the father of Mr. 
Reynolds had suppressed the certificate of the marriage, 

244 


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as it had never been acknowledged by him or by any of 
the family. Lord Colambre now frankly told the count 
why he was so anxious about this affair; and Count 
O’Halloran, with all the warmth of youth, and with all 
the ardent generosity characteristic of his country, entered 
into his feelings, declaring that he would never rest till he 
had established the truth. 

“Unfortunately,” said the count, “the ambassador who 
took the packet in charge is dead. I am afraid we shall 
have difficulty.” 

“But he must have had some secretary,” said Lord Co- 
lambre; “who was his secretary? — we can apply to him.” 

“His secretary is now charge d'affaires in Vienna — we 
cannot get at him.” 

“Into whose hands have that ambassador’s papers fallen 
— who is his executor? ” said Lord Colambre. 

“His executor! — now you have it,” cried the count. 
“His executor is the very man who will do your business 
— your friend Sir James Brooke is the executor. All 
papers, of course, are in his hands ; or he can have access 
to any that are in the hands of the family. The family 
seat is within a few miles of Sir James Brooke’s, in Hunt- 
ingdonshire, where, as I told you before, he now is.” 

“I’ll go to him immediately — set out in the mail this 
night. Just in time!” cried Lord Colambre, pulling out 
his watch with one hand, and ringing the bell with the 
other. 

“Run and take a place for me in the mail for Hunting- 
don. Go directly,” said Lord Colambre to the servant. 

“And take two places, if you please, sir,” said the count. 
“My lord, I will accompany you.” 

But this Lord Colafnbre would not permit, as it would 
be unnecessary to fatigue the good old general ; and a letter 
from him to Sir James Brooke would do all that the count 
could effect by his presence; the search for the papers 
would be made by Sir James, and if the packet could be 
recovered, or if any memorandum or mode of ascertaining 
that it had actually been delivered to old Reynolds could 
be discovered. Lord Colambre said he would then call upon 

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the count for his assistance, and trouble him to identify 
the packet ; or to go with him to Mr. Reynolds to make 
further inquiries; and to certify, at all events, the young 
man’s dying acknowledgment of his marriage and of his 
child. 

The place in the mail, just in time, was taken. Lord 
Colambre sent a servant in search of his father, with a note 
explaining the necessity of his sudden departure. All the 
business which remained to be done in town he knew Lord 
Clonbrony could accomplish without his assistance. Then 
he wrote a few lines to his mother, on the very sheet of 
paper on which, a few hours before, he had sorrowfully and 
slowly begun — 

My dear Mother — Miss Nugent. 

He now joyfully and rapidly went on — 

My dear Mother and Miss Nugent, 

I hope to be with you on Wednesday se’nnight; but if unfore- 
seen circumstances should delay me, I will certainly write to 
you again. — Dear mother, believe me, your obliged and 
grateful son, Colambre. 

The count, in the meantime, wrote a letter for him to 
Sir James Brooke, describing the packet which he had 
given to the ambassador, and relating all the circumstances 
that could lead to its recovery. Lord Colambre, almost 
before the wax was hard, seized possession of the letter; 
the count seeming almost as eager to hurry him off as he 
was to set out. He thanked the count with few words, 
but with strong feeling. Joy and love returned in full tide 
upon our hero’s soul; all the military ideas, which but an 
hour before filled his imagination, were put to flight : Spain 
vanished, and green Ireland reappeared. 

Just as they shook hands at parting, the good old gen- 
eral, with a smile, said to him, “I believe I had better not 
stir in the matter of Benson’s commission till I hear more 
from you. My harangue, in favour of the military pro- 
fession, will, I fancy, prove like most other harangues, en 
pure perte. ’ ’ 


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CHAPTER XVI. 

I N what words of polite circumlocution, or of cautious 
diplomacy, shall we say, or hint, that the deceased 
ambassador’s papers were found in shameful disorder. 
His excellency’s executor. Sir James Brooke, however, was 
indefatigable in his researches. He and Lord Colambre 
spent two whole days in looking over pprtfolios of letters 
and memorials, and manifestoes, and bundles of paper of 
the most heterogeneous sorts ; some of them without any 
docket or direction to lead to a knowledge of their con- 
tents; others written upon in such a manner as to give an 
erroneous notion of their nature ; so that it was necessary 
to untie every paper separately. At last, when they had 
opened, as they thought, every paper, and, wearied and in 
despair, were just on the point of giving up the search. 
Lord Colambre spied a bundle of old newspapers at the 
bottom of a trunk. 

“They are only old Vienna Gazettes; I looked at them,” 
said Sir James. 

Lord Colambre, upon this assurance, was going to throw 
them into the trunk again ; but observing that the bundle 
had not been untied, he opened it, and within-side of the 
newspapers he found a rough copy of the ambassador’s 
journal, and with it the packet, directed to Ralph Reynolds 
sen.. Esq.*, Old Court, Suffolk, per favour of his excellency, 

Earl , a note on the cover, signed O’Halloran, stating 

when received by him, and the date of the day when de- 
livered to the ambassador — seals unbroken. Our hero was 
in such a transport of joy at the sight of this packet, and 
his friend Sir James Brooke so full of his congratulations, 
that they forgot to curse the ambassador’s carelessness, 
which had been the cause of so much evil. 

The next thing to be done was to deliver the packet to 
Ralph Reynolds, Old Court, Suffolk. But when Lord 
Colambre arrived at Old Court, Suffolk, he found all the 
gates locked, and no admittance to be had. At last an old 
woman came out of the porter’s lodge, who said Mr. 
Reynolds was not there, and she could not say where he 

247 


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was. After our hero had opened her heart by the present 
of half a guinea, she explained, that she “could not justly 
say where he was, because that he never let anybody of 
his own people know where he was any day ; he had several 
different houses and places in different parts, and far-off 
counties, and other shires, as she heard, and by times he 
was at one, and by times at another. The names of two 
of the places, Toddrington and Little Wrestham, she knew; 
but there were others to which she could give no direction. 
He had houses in odd parts of London, too, that he let; 
and sometimes, when the lodgers' time was Out, he would 
go, and be never heard of for a month, maybe, in one of 
them. In short, there was no telling or saying where he 
was or would be one day of the week, by where he had 
been the last." 

When Lord Colambre expressed some surprise that an 
old gentleman, as he conceived Mr. Ralph Reynolds to be, 
should change places so frequently, the old woman an- 
swered, “That though her master was a deal on the wrong 
side of seventy, and though, to look at him, you’d think 
he was glued to his chair, and would fall to pieces if he 
should stir out of it, yet was as alert, and thought no more 
of going about, than if he was as young as the gentleman 
who was now speaking to her. It was old Mr. Reynolds’s 
delight to come down and surprise his people at his differ- 
ent places, and see that they were keeping all tight.’’ 

“What sort of a man is he? — Is he a miser? ’’ said Lord 
Colambre. 

“He is a miser, and he is not a miser,’’ said the woman. 
“Now he’d think as much of the waste of a penny as an- 
other man would of a hundred pounds, and yet he would 
give a hundred pounds easier than another would give a 
penny, when he’s in the humour. But his humour is very 
odd, and there’s no knowing where to have him ; he’s gross- 
grained, and more posit iver-XWs.t than a mule ; and his deaf- 
ness made him worse in this, because he never heard what 
nobody said, but would say on his own way — he was very 
odd, but not cracked — no, he was as clear-headed, when he 
took a thing the right way, as any man could be, and as 

248 


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clever, and could talk as well as any member of Parlia- 
ment, — and good-natured, and kind-hearted, where he 
would take a fancy — but then, maybe, it would be to a 
dog (he was remarkable fond of dogs), or a cat, or a rat 
even, that he would take a fancy, and think more of ’em 
than he would of a Christian. But, poor gentleman, there’s 
great allowance,” said she, “to be made for him, that lost 
his son and heir — that would have been heir to all, and a 
fine youth that he doted upon. But,” continued the old 
woman, in whose mind the transitions from great to little, 
from serious to trivial, were ludicrously abrupt, “that was 
no reason why the ol^d gentleman should scold me last time 
he was here, as he did, for as long as ever he could stand 
over me, only because I killed a mouse who was eating my 
cheese; and, before night, he beat a boy for stealing a 
piece of that same cheese ; and he would never, when down 
here, let me set a mouse-trap.” 

“Well, my good woman,’*’ interrupted Lord Colambre, 
who was little interested in this affair of the mouse-trap, 
and nowise curious to learn more of Mr. Reynolds’s do- 
mestic economy, “I’ll not trouble you any further, if you 
can be so good as to tell me the road to Toddrington, or 
to Little Wickham, I think you call it.” 

“Little Wickham!” repeated the woman, laughing — 
“Bless you, sir, where do you come from? — It’s Little 
Wrestham; surely everybody knows, near Lantry; and 
keep the pike till you come to the turn at Rotherford, and 
then you strike off into the by-road to the left, and then 
again turn at the ford to the right. But, if you are going 
to Toddrington, you don’t go the road to market, which 
is at the first turn to the left, and the cross-country road, 
where there’s no quarter, and Toddrington lies — but for 
Wrestham, you take the road to market.” 

It was some time before our hero could persuade the old 
woman to stick to Little Wrestham, or to Toddrington, 
and not to mix the directions for the different roads to- 
gether — he took patience, for his impatience only confused 
his director the more. In process of time, he made out, 
and wrote down, the various turns that he was to follow, 

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to reach Little Wrestham ; but no human power could get 
her from Little Wrestham to Toddrington, though she 
knew the road perfectly well ; but she had, for the seven- 
teen last years, been used to go “the other road,” and all 
the carriers went that way, and passed the door, and that 
was all she could certify. 

Little Wrestham, after turning to the left and right as 
often as his directory required, our hero happily reached ; 
but, unhappily, he found no Mr. Reynolds there; only a 
steward, who gave nearly the same account of his master 
as had been given by the old woman, and could not guess 
even where the gentleman might now be. Toddrington 
was as likely as any place — but he could not say. 

“Perseverance against fortune.” To Toddrington our 
hero proceeded, through cross-country roads — such roads ! 
— very different from the Irish roads. Waggon ruts, into 
which the carriage wheels sunk nearly to the nave — and, 
from time to time, “sloughs of despond,” through which 
it seemed impossible to drag, walk, wade, or swim, and all 
the time with a sulky postillion. “Oh, how unlike my 
Larry!” thought Lord Colambre. 

At length, in a very narrow lane, going up a hill, said to • 
be two miles of ascent, they overtook a heavy laden wag- 
gon, and they were obliged to go step by step behind it, 
whilst, enjoying the gentleman’s impatience much, and 
the postillion’s sulkiness more, the waggoner, in his em- 
broidered frock, walked in state, with his long sceptre in 
his hand. 

The postillion muttered “curses not loud, but deep.” 
Deep or loud, no purpose would they have answered ; the 
waggoner’s temper was proof against curse in or out of 
the English language ; and from their snail’s pace neither 
Dickens nor devil, nor any postillion in England, could 
make him put his horses. Lord Colambre jumped out of 
.the chaise, and, walking beside him, began to talk to him; 
and spoke of his horses, their bells, their trappings; the 
beauty and strength of the thill-horse — the value of the 
whole team, which his lordship happening to guess right 
within ten pounds, and showing, moreover, some skill 

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^bout road-making and waggon-wheels, and being fortun- 
ately of the waggoner’s own opinion in the great question 
about conical and cylindrical rims, he was pleased with 
the young chap of a gentleman ; and, in spite of the chuffi- 
ness of his appearance and churlishness of his speech, this 
waggoner’s bosom “being made of penetrating stuff,” he 
determined to let the gentleman pass. Accordingly, when 
half-way up the hill, and the head of the fore-horse came 
near an open gate, the waggoner, without saying one word 
or turning his head, touched the horse with his long whip 
— and the horse turned in at the gate, and then came — 

“Dobbin! — Jeho!” and strange calls and sounds, which 
all the other horses of the team obeyed ; and the waggon 
turned into the farmyard. 

“Now, master! while I turn, you may pass.” 

The covering of the waggon caught in the hedge as the 
waggon turned in; and as the sacking was drawn back, 
some of the packages were disturbed — a cheese was just 
rolling off on the side next Lord Colambre ; he stopped it 
from falling; the direction caught his quick eye — “To 
Ralph Reynolds, Esq. ’ ’ — ‘ ‘ Toddrington ’ ’ scratched out ; 
“Red Lion Square, London,” written in another hand 
below. 

“Now I have found him! And surely I know that 
hand ! ” said Lord Colambre to himself, looking more 
closely at the direction. 

The original direction was certainly in a handwriting 
well known to him — it was Lady Dashfort’s. 

“That there cheese, that you’re looking at so cur’ously,” 
said the waggoner, “has been a great traveller; for it came 
all the way down from Lon’on, and now it’s going all the 
way up again back, on account of not finding the gentle- 
man at home ; and the man that booked it told me as how 
it came from foreign parts.” 

Lord Colambre took down the direction, tossed the 
honest waggoner a guinea, wished him good night, passed, 
and went on. As soon as he could, he turned into the 
London road — at the first town, got a place in the mail — 
reached London — saw his father — went directly to his 

251 


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friend, Count O’Halloran, who was delighted when he be- 
held the packet. Lord Colambre was extremely eager to 
go immediately to old Reynolds, fatigued as he was ; for he 
had travelled night and day, and had scarcely allowed him- 
self, mind or body, one moment’s repose. 

“Heroes must sleep, and lovers too; or they soon will 
cease to be heroes or lovers!” said the count. “Rest, 
rest, perturbed spirit 1 this night ; and to-morrow morning 
we’ll finish the adventure in Red Lion Square, or I will 
accompany you when and where you will ; if necessary, to 
earth’s remotest bounds.” 

The next morning Lord Colambre went to breakfast 
with the count. The count, who was not in love, was not 
up, for our hero was half an hour earlier than the time 
appointed. The old servant Alick, who had attended his 
master to England, was very glad to see Lord Colambre 
again, and, showing him into the breakfast parlour, could 
not help saying, in defence of his master’s punctuality — 

“Your clocks, I suppose, my lord, are half an hour 
faster than ours ; my master will be ready to the moment. ’ ’ 

The count soon appeared — breakfast was soon over, and 
the carriage at the door; for the count sympathised in his 
young friend’s impatience. As they were setting out, the 
count’s large Irish dog pushed out of the house door to 
follow them; and his master would have forbidden him, 
but Lord Colambre begged that he might be permitted to 
accompany them ; for his lordship recollected the old wo- 
man’s having mentioned that Mr. Reynolds was fond of 
dogs. 

They arrived in Red Lion Square, found the house of 
Mr. Reynolds, and, contrary to the count’s prognostics, 
found the old gentleman up, and they saw him in his red 
night-cap at his parlour window. After some minutes’ 
running backwards and forwards of a boy in the passage, 
and two or three peeps taken over the blinds by the old 
gentleman, they were admitted. 

The boy could not master their names ; so they were 
obliged reciprocally to announce themselves — “Count 
O’Halloran and Lord Colambre.” The names seemed to 

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make no impression on the old gentleman ; but he deliber- 
ately looked at the count and his lordship, as if studying 
what rather than who they were. In spite of the red 
night-cap, and a flowered dressing-gown, Mr. Reynolds 
looked like a gentleman, an odd gentleman — but still a 
gentleman. 

As Count O’Halloran came into the room, and as his 
large dog attempted to follow, the count’s voice expressed : 
“Say, shall I let him in, or shut the door?’’ 

“Oh, let him in, by all means, sir, if you please! I am 
fond of dogs ; and a finer one I never saw ; pray, gentle- 
men, be seated,’’ said he — a portion of the complacency 
inspired by the sight of the dog, diffusing itself over his 
manner towards the master of so fine an animal, and even 
extending to the master’s companion, though in an inferior 
degree. Whilst Mr. Reynolds stroked the dog, the count 
told him that “the dog was of a curious breed, now almost 
extinct — the Irish greyhound, of which only one noble- 
man in Ireland, it is said, has now a few of the species re- 
maining in his possession Now, lie down, Hannibal,” 

said the count. “Mr. Reynolds, we have taken the 

liberty, though strangers, of waiting upon you ” 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Mr. Reynolds; 
“but did I understand you rightly, that a few of the same 
species are still to be had from one nobleman in Ireland? 
Pray, what is his name?” said he, taking out his pencil. 

The count wrote the name for him, but observed, that 
“he had asserted only that a few of these dogs remained 
in the possession of that nobleman; he could not answer 
for it that they were to be hady 

“Oh, I have ways and means,” said old Reynolds; and, 
rapping his snuff-box, and talking, as it was his custom, 
aloud to himself, “Lady Dashfort knows all those Irish 
lords ; she shall get one for me — ay ! ay ! ” 

Count O’Halloran replied, as if the words had been 
addressed to him — 

“Lady Dashfort is in England.” 

“I know it, sir; she is in London,” said Mr. Reynolds, 
hastily. “What do you know of her?” 

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'H know, sir, that she is not likely to return to Ireland, 
and that I am ; and so is my young friend here ; and if the 
thing can be accomplished, we will get it done for you.” 

Lord Colambre joined in this promise, and added that, 
*Tf the dog could be obtained, he would undertake to have 
him safely sent over to England.” 

“Sir — gentlemen! Tm much obliged; that is, when you 
have done the thing I shall be much obliged. But, maybe, 
you are only making me civil speeches! “ 

“Of that, sir,“ said the count, smiling with much temper, 
“your own sagacity and knowledge of the world must 
enable you to judge.” 

“For my own part, I can only say,” cried Lord Co- 
lambre, “that I am not in the habit of being reproached 
with saying one thing and meaning another.” 

“Hot ! I see,” said old Reynolds, nodding, as he looked 
at Lord Colambre. “Cool!” added he, nodding at the 
count. “But a time for everything; I was hot once — both 
answers good, for their ages.” 

This speech Lord Colambre and the count tacitly agreed 
to consider as another apart, which they were not to hear, 
or seem to hear. The count began again on the business 
of their visit, as he saw that Lord Colambre was boiling 
with impatience, and feared that he should boil over, and 
spoil all. The count commenced with — 

“Mr. Reynolds, your name sounds to me like the name 
of a friend; for I had once a friend of that name; I had 
once the pleasure (and a very great pleasure it was to me) 
to be intimately acquainted abroad, on the Continent, with 
a very amiable and gallant youth — your son ! ” 

“Take care, sir,” said the old man, starting up from his 
chair, and instantly sinking down again, — “take care! 
Don’t mention him to me — unless you would strike me 
dead on the spot ! ” 

The convulsed motions of his fingers and face worked 
for some moments ; whilst the count and Lord Colambre, 
much shocked and alarmed, stood in silence. 

The convulsed motions ceased ; and the old man unbut- 
toned his waistcoat, as if to relieve some sense of expres- 

254 


THE ABSENTEE 


sion ; uncovered his grey hairs ; and, after leaning back to 
rest himself, with his eyes fixed, and in reverie for a few 
moments, he sat upright again in his chair, and exclaimed, 
as he looked round — 

“Son! — Did not somebody say that word? Who is so 
cruel to say that word before me? Nobody has ever 
spoken of him to me — but once, since his death ! Do you 
know, sir,” said he, fixing his eyes on Count O’Halloran, 
and laying his cold hand on him, “do you know where he 
was buried, I ask you, sir? do you remember how he 
died?” 

“Too well 1 too well ! ” cried the count, so much affected 
as to be scarcely able to pronounce the words; “he died in 
my arms; I buried him myself I ” 

“Impossible!” cried Mr. Reynolds. “Why do you say 
so, sir?” said he, studying the count’s face with a sort of 
bewildered earnestness. ‘ ‘ Impossible ! His body was sent 
over to me in a lead coffin ; and I saw it — and I was asked 
— and I answered, ‘in the family vault.’ But the shock is 
over,” said he; “and, gentlemen, if the business of your 
visit relates to that subject, I trust I am now sufficiently 
composed to attend to you. Indeed, I ought to be pre- 
pared; for I had reason, for years, to expect the stroke; 
and yet, when it came, it seemed sudden ! — it stunned me 
— put an end to all my worldly prospects — left me child- 
less, without a single descendant or relation near enough 
to be dear to me! I am an insulated being! ” 

“No, sir, you are not an insulated being,” said Lord 
Colambre; “you have a near relation, who will, who must 
be dear to you ; who will make you amends for all you have 
lost, all you have suffered — who will bring peace and joy 
to your heart. You have a grand-daughter.” 

“No, sir; I have no grand-daughter,” said old Reynolds, 
his face and whole form becoming rigid with the expression 
of obstinacy. “Rather have no descendant than be forced 
to acknowledge an illegitimate child.” 

“My lord, I entreat as a friend — I command you to be 
patient,” said the count, who saw Lord Colambre’s indig- 
nation suddenly rise. 


255 


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“So, then, this is the purpose of your visit,” continued 
old Reynolds; “and you come from my enemies, from the 
St. Omars, and you are in league with them,” continued 
old Reynolds; “and all this time it is of my eldest son you 
have been talking.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the count; “of Captain Reynolds, 
who fell in battle, in the Austrian service, about nineteen 
years ago — a more gallant and amiable youth never lived.” 

Pleasure revived through the dull look of obstinacy in 
the father’s eyes. 

“He was, as you say, sir, a gallant, an amiable youth, 
once — and he was my pride, and I loved him, too, once — 
but did not you know I had another? ” 

“No, sir, we did not — we are, you may perceive, totally 
ignorant of your family and of your affairs — we have no 
connexion whatever or knowledge of any of the St. Omars. 

“I detest the sound of the name,” cried Lord Colambre. 

“Oh, good! good! — Well! well! I beg your pardon, 
gentlemen, a thousand times — I am a hasty, very hasty 
old man; but I have been harassed, persecuted, hunted 
by wretches, who got a scent of my gold ; often in my rage 
I longed to throw my treasure-bags to my pursuers, and 
bid them leave me to die in peace. You have feelings, I 
see, both of you, gentlemen ; excuse me, and bear with 
my temper.” 

“Bear with you! Much enforced, the best tempers will 
emit a hasty spark,” said the count, looking at Lord Co- 
lambre, who was now cool again ; and who, with a counten- 
ance full of compassion, sat with his eyes fixed upon the 
poor — no, not the poor, but the unhappy old man. 

“Yes, I had another son,” continued Mr. Reynolds, 
“and on him all my affections concentrated when I lost my 
eldest, and for him I desired to preserve the estate which 
his mother brought into my family. Since you know no- 
thing of my affairs, let me explain to you ; that estate was 
so settled, that it would have gone to the child, even the 
daughter of my eldest son, if there had been a legitimate 
child. But I knew there was no marriage, and I held out 
firm to my opinion. ‘If there was a marriage,’ said I, 

256 


THE ABSENTEE 


‘show me the marriage certificate, and I will acknowledge 
the marriage, and acknowledge the child ’ ; but they could 
not, and I knew they could not ; and I kept the estate for 
my darling boy,” cried the old gentleman, with the exulta- 
tion of successful positiveness again appearing strong in his 
physiognomy; but suddenly changing and relaxing, his 
countenance fell, and he added, “But now I have no darl- 
ing boy. What use all ! — all must go to the heir-at-law, or 
I must will it to a stranger — a lady of quality, who has just 
found out she is my relation — God knows how — I’m no 
genealogist — and sends me Irish cheese and Iceland moss, 
for my breakfast, and her waiting-gentlewoman to namby- 
pamby me. Oh, I’m sick of it all — see through it — wish I 
was blind — wish I had a hiding-place, where flatterers could 
not find me — pursued, chased — must change my lodgings 
again to-morrow — will, will — I beg your pardon, gentle- 
men, again; you were going to tell me, sir, something 
more of my eldest son ; and how I was led away from the 
subject, I don’t know; but I meant only to have assured 
you that his memory was dear to me, till I was so tor- 
mented about that unfortunate affair of his pretended 
marriage, that at length I hated to hear him named ; but 
the heir-at-law, at last, will triumph over me.” 

“No, my good sir, not if you triumph over yourself, and 
do justice,” cried Lord Colambre; “if you listen to the 
truth, which my friend will tell you, and if you will read 
and believe the confirmation of it, under your son’s own 
hand, in this packet.” 

“His own hand indeed ! His seal — unbroken. But how 
— when — where — why was it kept so long, and how came it 
into your hands? ” 

Count O’Halloran told Mr. Reynolds that the packet 
had been given to him by Captain Reynolds on his death- 
bed; related the dying acknowledgment which Captain 
Reynolds had made of his marriage ; and gave an account 
of the delivery of the packet to the ambassador, who had 
promised to transmit it faithfully. Lord Colambre told 
the manner in which it had been mislaid, and at last re- 
covered from among the deceased ambassador’s papers. 

257 


17 


THE ABSENTEE 


The father still gazed at the direction, and re-examined 
the seals. 

“My son’s handwriting — my son’s seals! But where is 
the certificate of the marriage?’’ repeated he; “if it is 

within-side of this packet, I have done great in but I 

am convinced it never was a marriage. Yet I wish now it 
could be proved — only, in that case, I have for years done 
great ’’ 

“Won’t you open the packet, sir? ’’ said Lord Colambre. 
Mr. Reynolds looked up at him with a look that said, “I 
don’t clearly know what interest you have in all this.” But, 
unable to speak, and his hands trembling so that he could 
scarcely break the seals, he tore off the cover, laid the 
papers before him, sat down, and took breath. Lord Co- 
lambre, however impatient, had now too much humanity 
to hurry the old gentleman ; he only ran for the spectacles, 
which he espied on the chimney-piece, rubbed them bright, 
and held them ready. Mr. Reynolds stretched his hand 
out for them, put them on, and the first paper he opened 
was the certificate of the marriage ; he read it aloud, and, 
putting it down, said — 

“Now I acknowledge the marriage. I always said, if 
there is a marriage there must be a certificate. And you 
see now there is a certificate — I acknowledge the marriage.’’ 

“And now,’’ cried Lord Colambre, “lam happy, posi- 
tively happy. Acknowledge your grand-daughter, sir — 
acknowledge Miss Nugent.’’ 

“Acknowledge who, sir?’’ 

“Acknowledge Miss Reynolds — your grand-daughter; I 
ask no more — do what you will with your fortune.’’ 

“Oh, now I understand — I begin to understand — this 
young gentleman is in love — but where is my grand- 
daughter? — how shall I know she is my grand-daughter? 
I have not heard of her since she was an infant — I forgot 
her existence — I have done her great injustice.’’ 

“She knows nothing of it, sir,’’ said Lord Colambre, 
who now entered into a full explanation of Miss Nugent’s 
history, and of her connexion with his family, and of his 
own attachment to her ; concluding the whole by assuring 

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THE ABSENTEE 


Mr. Reynolds that his grand-daughter had every virtue 
under heaven. “And as to your fortune, sir, I know that 
she will, as I do, say ” 

“No matter what she will say , ” interrupted old Reynolds ; 
“where is she? When I see her, I shall hear what she says. 
Tell me where she is — let me see her. I long to see whether 
there is any likeness to her poor father. Where is she? 
Let me see her immediately.” 

“She is one hundred and sixty miles off, sir, at Buxton.” 

“Well, my lord, and what is a hundred and sixty miles? 
I suppose you think I can’t stir from my chair, but you 
are mistaken. I think nothing of a journey of a hundred 
and sixty miles — I’m ready to set cfi to-morrow — this 
instant.” 

Lord Colambre said, that he was sure Miss Reynolds 
would obey her grandfather’s slightest summons, as it was 
her duty to do, and would be with him as soon as possible, 
if this would be more agreeable to him! “I will write to 
her instantly,” said his lordship, “if you will commission 
me.” 

“No, my lord, I do not commission — I will go — I think 
nothing, I say, of a journey of a hundred and sixty miles 
— I’ll go — and set out to-morrow morning.” 

Lord Colambre and the count, perfectly satisfied with 
the result of their visit, now thought it best to leave old 
Reynolds at liberty to rest himself, after so many strong 
and varied feelings. They paid their parting compliments, 
settled the time for the next day’s journey, and were just 
going to quit the room when Lord Colambre heard in the 
passage a well-known voice — the voice of Mrs. Petito. 

“Oh no, my compliments, and my Lady Dashfort’s best 
compliments, and I will call again.” 

“No, no,” cried old Reynolds, pulling his bell; “I’ll 
have no calling again — I’ll be hanged if I do! Let her in 
now, and I’ll see her — Jack! let in that woman now or 
never. 

“The lady’s gone, sir, out of the street-door.” 

“After her, then — now or never, tell her.” 

“Sir, she was in a hackney coach.” 

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Old Reynolds jumped up, and went to the window him- 
self, and, seeing the hackney coachman just turning, beck- 
oned at the window, and Mrs. Petito was set down again, 
and ushered in by Jack, who announced her as — 

“The lady, sir.” The only lady he had seen in that 
house. 

“My dear Mr. Reynolds, Tm so obliged to you for let- 
ting me in,” cried Mrs. Petito, adjusting her shawl in the 
passage, and speaking in a voice and manner well mimicked 
after her betters. “You are so very good and kind, and 
I am so much obliged to you.” 

“You are not obliged to me, and I am neither good nor 
kind,” said old Reynolds. 

“You strange man,” said Mrs. Petito, advancing grace- 
ful in shawl drapery; but she stopped short. “My Lord 
Colambre and Count O'Halloran, as I hope to be saved! ” 

“I did not know Mrs. Petito was an acquaintance of 
yours, gentlemen,” said Mr. Reynolds, smiling shrewdly. 

Count O’Halloran was too polite to deny his acquaint- 
ance with a lady who challenged it by thus naming him ; 
but he had not the slightest recollection of her, though it 
seems he had met her on the stairs when he visited Lady 
Dashfort at Killpatrickstown. Lord Colambre was “in- 
deed undeniably an old acquaintance ” ; and as soon as she 
had recovered from her first natural start and vulgar ex- 
clamation, she with very easy familiarity hoped “My Lady 
Clonbrony, and my lord, and Miss Nugent, and all her 
friends in the family, were well”; and said, “she did not 
know whether she was to congratulate his lordship or not 
upon Miss Broadhurst, my Lady BerryPs marriage, but 
she should soon have to hope for his lordship’s congratula- 
tions for another marriage in her present family — Lady 
Isabel to Colonel Heathcock, who has come in for a large 
portion^ and they are buying the wedding clothes — sights 
of clothes — and the di’monds, this day; and Lady Dash- 
fort and my Lady Isabel sent me especially, sir, to you, 
Mr. Reynolds, and to tell you, sir, before anybody else; 
and to hope the cheese come safe up again at last ; and to 
ask whether the Iceland moss agrees with your chocolate, 

260 


THE ABSENTEE 


and is palatable; it’s the most diluent thing upon the uni- 
versal earth, and the most tonic and fashionable — the 
Dutches of Torcaster takes it always for breakfast, and 
Lady St. James too is quite a convert, and I hear the 

Duke of V takes it too.” 

“And the devil may take it too, for anything that I 
care,” said old Reynolds. 

“Oh, my dear, dear sir! you are so refractory a patient.” 
“lam no patient at all, ma’am, and have no patience 
either; I am as well as you are, or my Lady Dashfort 
either, and hope, God willing, long to continue so.” 

Mrs. Petito smiled aside at Lord Colambre, to mark her 
perception of the man’s strangeness. Then, in a cajoling 
voice, addressing herself to the old gentleman — 

“Long, long, I hope, to continue so, if Heaven grants 
my daily and nightly prayers, and my Lady Dashfort’s 
also. So, Mr. Reynolds, if the ladies’ prayers are of any 
avail, you ought to be surely, and I suppose ladies’ prayers 
have the precedency in efficacy. But it was not of prayers 
and deathbed affairs I came commissioned to treat — not of 
burials, which Heaven above forbid, but of weddings my 
diplomacy was to speak ; and to premise my Lady Dash- 
fort would have come herself in her carriage, but is hurried 
out of her senses, and my Lady Isabel could not in proper 
modesty; so they sent me as their double, to hope you, my 
dear Mr. Reynolds, who is one of the family relations, will 
honour the wedding with your presence.” 

“It would be no honour, and they know that as well as 
I do,” said the intractable Mr. Reynolds. “It will be no 
advantage, either; but that they do not know as well as I 
do. Mrs. Petito, to save you and your lady all trouble 
about me in future, please to let my Lady Dashfort know 
that I have just received and read the certificate of my son 
Captain Reynolds’s marriage with Miss St. Omar. I have 
acknowledged the marriage. Better late than never; and 
to-morrow morning, God willing, shall set out with this 
young nobleman for Buxton, where I hope to see, and in- 
tend publicly to acknowledge, my grand-daughter — pro- 
vided she will acknowledge me.” 

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Crhnini ! exclaimed Mrs. Petito, “what new turns 
are here! Well, sir, I shall tell my lady of the metamor- 
phoses that have taken place, though by what magic (as I 
have not the honour to deal in the black art) I can’t guess. 
But, since it seems annoying and inopportune, I shall take 
my fiyiale, and shall thus have a verbal P.P.C. — as you are 
leaving town, it seems, for Buxton so early in the morning. 
My Lord Colambre, if I see rightly into a millstone, as I 
hope and believe I do on the present occasion, I have to 
congratulate your lordship (haven’t I?) upon something 
like a succession, or a windfall, in this denewment. And I 
beg you’ll make my humble respects acceptable to the ci- 
devant Miss Grace Nugent that was; and I won’t derrogate 
her by any other name in the interregnum, as I am per- 
suaded it will only be a temporary name, scarce worth as- 
suming, except for the honour of the public adoption; and 
that will, I’m confident, be soon exchanged for a viscount’s 
title, or I have no sagacity nor sympathy. ^ I hope I don’t 
(pray don’t let me) put you to the blush, my lord.’’ 

Lord Colambre would not have let her, if he could have 
helped it. 

“Count O’Halloran, your most obedient! I had the 
honour of meeting you at Killpatrickstown,’’ said Mrs. 
Petito, backing to the door, and twitching her shawl. She 
stumbled, nearly fell down, over the large dog — caught by 
the door, and recovered herself. Hannibal rose and shook 
his ears. “Poor fellow! you are of my acquaintance too.’’ 
She would have stroked his head ; but Hannibal walked off 
indignant, and so did she. 

Thus ended certain hopes; for Mrs. Petito had conceived 
that her diplomacy might be turned to account ; that in her 
character of an ambassadress, as Lady Dashfort’s double, 
by the aid of Iceland moss in chocolate, flattery properly 
administered; that, by bearing with all her dear Mr. 
Reynolds’s oddnesses and roughnesses, she might in time — 
that is to say, before he made a new will — become his dear 
Mrs. Petito ; or (for stranger things have happened and do 
happen every day) his dear Mrs. Reynolds! Mrs. Petito, 
however, was good at a retreat ; and she flattered herself 

262 


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that at least nothing of this underplot had appeared ; and 
at all events she secured by her services in this embassy, 
the long-looked-for object of her ambition, Lady Dashfort's 
scarlet velvet gown — “not yet a thread the worse for the 
wear ! ’ ’ One cordial look at this comforted her for the loss 
of her expected octogcnaire ; and she proceeded to discomfit 
her lady, by repeating the message with which strange old 
Mr. Reynolds had charged her. — So ended all Lady Dash- 
fort’s hopes of his fortune. 

Since the death of his youngest son, she had been inde- 
fatigable in her attentions, and sanguine in her hopes; the 
disappointment affected both her interest and her pride, as 
an intrigante. It was necessary, however, to keep her 
feelings to herself ; for if Heathcock should hear anything 
of the matter before the articles were signed, he might 
“be off! ’’ — so she put him and Lady Isabel into her coach 
directly — drove to Gray’s, to make sure at all events of the 
jewels. 

In the meantime Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre, 
delighted with the result of their visit, took leave of Mr. 
Reynolds, after having arranged the journey, and appointed 
the hour for setting off the next day. Lord Colambre pro- 
posed to call upon Mr. Reynolds in the evening, and in- 
troduce his father. Lord Clonbrony; but Mr. Reynolds 
said — 

“No, no! I’m not ceremonious. I have given you 
proofs enough of that, I think, in the short time we’ve 
been already acquainted. Time enough to introduce your 
father to me when we are in a carriage, going our journey; 
then we can talk, and get acquainted ; but merely to come 
this evening in a hurry, and say, ‘Lord Clonbrony, Mr. 
Reynolds; — Mr. Reynolds, Lord Clonbrony,’ and then bob 
our two heads at one another, and scrape one foot back, 
and away! — where’s the use of that nonsense at my time 
of life, or at any time of life? No, no! we have enough 

to do without that, I daresay. Good morning to you, 

Count O’Halloran! I thank you heartily. From the first 
moment I saw you, I liked you ; lucky too that you brought 
your dog with you ! ’Twas Hannibal made me first let 

263 


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you in; I saw him over the top of the blind. — Hannibal, 
my good fellow! Tm more obliged to you than you can 
guess.'' 

“So are we all," said Lord Colambre. 

Hannibal was well patted, and then they parted. In re- 
turning home they met Sir James Brooke. 

“I told you,'' said Sir James, “I should be in London 
almost as soon as you. Have you found old Reynolds?'' 

“Just come from him.'' 

“How does your business prosper? I hope as well as 
mine.'' 

A history of all that had passed up to the present mo- 
ment was given, and hearty congratulations received. 

“Where are you going now. Sir James?— cannot you 
come with us? '' said Lord Colambre and the count. 

“Impossible," replied Sir James; — “but, perhaps, you 
can come with me — I'm going to Gray's, to give some old 
family diamonds, either to be new set or exchanged. 
Count O'Halloran, I know you are a judge of these things; 
pray, come and give me your opinion.". 

“Better consult your bride elect! " said the count. 

“No; she knows little of the matter — and cares less," 
replied Sir James. 

“Not so this bride elect, or I mistake her much," said 
the count, as they passed by the window and saw Lady 
Isabel, who, with Lady Dashfort, had been holding con- 
sultation deep with the jeweller; and Heathcock, playing 
personnage muet. 

Lady Dashfort, who had always, as old Reynolds ex- 
pressed it, “her head upon her shoulders" — presence of 
mind where her interests were concerned — ran to the door 
before the count and Lord Colambre could enter, giving a 
hand to each — as if they had all parted the best friends in 
the world. 

“How do? how do? — Give you joy! give me joy! and 
all that. But mind! not a word," said she, laying her 
finger upon her lips — “not a word before Heathcock of 
old Reynolds, or of the best part of the old fool, — his 
fortune! " 


264 


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The gentlemen bowed, in sign of submission to her lady 
ship’s commands ; and comprehended that she feared Heath- 
cock might be offj if the best part of his bride (her fortune, 
or her expectations) were lowered in value or in prospect. 

“How low is she reduced,” whispered Lord Colambre, 
“when such a husband is thought a prize — and to be se- 
cured by a manceuvre! ” He sighed. 

“Spare that generous sigh! ” said Sir James Brooke; “it 
is wasted.” ^ 

Lady Isabel, as they approached, turned from a mirror, 
at which she was trying on a diamond crescent. Her face 
clouded at sight of Count O’Halloran and Lord Colambre, 
and grew dark as hatred when she saw Sir James Brooke. 
She walked away to the farther end of the shop, and asked 
one of the shopmen the price of a diamond necklace which 
lay upon the counter. 

The man said, “He really did not know; it belonged to 
Lady Oranmore; it had just been new set for one of her 
ladyship’s daughters, who is going to be married to Sir 
James Brooke — one of the gentlemen, my lady, who are 
just come in.” 

Then, calling to his master, he asked him the price of 
the necklace ; he named the value, which was considerable. 

“I really thought Lady Oranmore and her daughters 
were vastly too philosophical to think of diamonds,” said 
Lady Isabel to her mother, with a sort of sentimental 
sneer in her voice and countenance. “But it is some com- 
fort to me to find, in these pattern-women, philosophy and 
love do not so wholly engross the heart, that they ‘feel 
every vanity in fondness lost.’ ” 

“ ’Twould be difficult, in some cases,” thought many 
present. 

“’Pon honour, di’monds are cursed expensive things, I 
know! ” said Heathcock. “But, be that as it may,” whis- 
pered he to the lady, though loud enough to be heard by 
others, “I’ve laid a damned round wager, that no woman’s 
diamonds married this winter, under a countess, in Lon’on, 
shall eclipse Lady Isabel Heathcock’s! — and Mr. Gray 
here’s to be judge.” 


265 


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Lady Isabel paid for this promise one of her sweetest 
smiles; with one of those smiles which she had formerly 
bestowed upon Lord Colambre, and which he had once 
fancied expressed so much sensibility — such discriminative 
and delicate application. 

Our hero felt so much contempt, that he never wasted 
another sigh of pity for her degradation. Lady Dashfort 
came up to him as he was standing alone ; and, whilst the 
count and Sir James were settling about the diamonds — 

“My Lord Colambre,” said she, in a low voice, “I know 
your thoughts, and I could moralise as well as you, if I 
did not prefer laughing — you are right enough ; and so am 
I, and so is Isabel; we are all right. For look here: wo- 
men have not always the liberty of choice, and therefore they 
can’t be expected to have always the power of refusal.” 

The mother, satisfied with her convenient optimism, got 
into her carriage with her daughter, her daughter’s dia- 
monds, and her precious son-in-law, her daughter’s com- 
panion for life. 

“The more I see,” said Count O’Halloran to Lord Co- 
lambre, as they left the shop, “the more I find reason to 
congratulate you upon your escape, my dear lord.” 

“I owe it not to my own wit or wisdom,” said Lord 
Colambre; “but much to love, and much to friendship,” 
added he, turning to Sir James Brooke; “here was the 
friend who early warned me against the siren’s voice; who, 
before I knew the Lady Isabel, told me what I have since 
found to be true, that 

“Two passions alternately govern her fate — 

Her business is love, but her pleasure is hate.” 

“That is dreadfully severe. Sir James,” said Count 
O’Halloran; “but I am afraid it is just.” 

“lam sure it is just, or I would not have said it,” replied 
Sir James Brooke. “ For the foibles of the sex, I hope, I have 
as much indulgence as any man, and for the errors of pas- 
sion as much pity ; but I cannot repress the indignation, the 
abhorrence I feel against women, cold and vain, who use 
their wit and their charms only to make others miserable.” 

266 


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Lord Colambre recollected at this moment Lady Isabel’s 
look and voice, when she declared that “she would let her 
little finger be cut off to purchase the pleasure of inflicting 
on Lady de Cresey, for one hour, the torture of jealousy.” 

“Perhaps,” continued Sir James Brooke, “now that I 
am going to marry into an Irish family, I may feel, with 
peculiar energy, disapprobation of this mother and daughter 
on another account; but you. Lord Colambre, will do me 
the justice to recollect that, before I had any personal in- 
terest in the country, I expressed, as a general friend to 
Ireland, antipathy to those who return the hospitality they 
received from a warm-hearted people, by publicly setting 
the example of elegant sentimental hypocrisy, or daring 
disregard of decorum, by privately endeavouring to destroy 
the domestic peace of families, on which, at last, public as 
well as private virtue and happiness depend. I do rejoice, 
my dear Lord Colambre, to hear you say that I had any 
share in saving you from the siren ; and now, I will never 
speak of these ladies more. I am sorry you cannot stay in 
town to see— but why should I be sorry — we shall meet 
again, I trust, and I shall introduce you ; and you, I hope, 
will introduce me to a very different charmer. Farewell ! 
— you have my warm good wishes wherever you go.” 

Sir James turned off quickly to the street in which Lady 
Oranmore lived, and Lord Colambre had not time to tell 
him that he knew and admired his intended bride. Count 
O’Halloran promised to do this for him. “And now,” 
said the good count, “I am to take leave of you ; and I as- 
sure you I do it with so much reluctance that nothing less 
than positive engagements to stay in town would prevent 
me from setting off with you to-morrow; but I shall be 
soon, very soon, at liberty to return to Ireland; and Clon- 
brony Castle, if you will give me leave, I will see before I 
see Halloran Castle.” 

Lord Colambre joyfully thanked his friend for this 
promise. 

“Nay, it is to indulge myself. I long to see you happy 

long to behold the choice of such a heart as yours. Pray 

do not steal a march upon me — let me know in time. I 

267 


THE ABSENTEE 


will leave everything — even the siege of for your 

wedding. But I trust I shall be in time.’' 

“Assuredly you will, my dear count; if ever that wed- 

ding ” 

repeated the count. 

repeated Lord Colambre. “Obstacles which, 
when we last parted, appeared to me invincible, prevented 
my having ever even attempted to make an impression on 
the heart of the woman I love; and if you knew her, 
count, as well as I do, you would know that her love could 
*not unsought be won.’ ’’ 

“Of that I cannot doubt, or she would not be your 
choice; but when her love is sought, we have every reason 
to hope,’’ said the count, smiling, “that it may, because 
it ought to be won by tried honour and affection. I only 
require to be left in hope.’* 

“Well, I leave you hope,’’ said Lord Colambre; “Miss 
Nugent — Miss Reynolds, I should say, has been in the 
habit of considering a union with me as impossible; my 
mother early instilled this idea into her mind. Miss 
Nugent thought that duty forbade her to think of me; she 
told me so : I have seen it in all her conduct and manners. 
The barriers of habit, the ideas of duty, cannot, ought not, 
to be thrown down or suddenly changed in a well-regulated 
female mind. And you, I am sure, know enough of the 
best female hearts, to be aware that time ’’ 

“Well, well, let this dear good charmer take her own 
time, provided there’s none given to affectation, or prudery, 
or coquetry; and from all these, of course, she must be 
free; and of course I must be content. Adieu au revoir,'' 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A S Lord Colambre was returning home, he was over- 
taken by Sir Terence O’ Fay. 

“Well, my lord,’’ cried Sir Terence, out of breath, 
‘*you have led me a pretty dance all over the town ; here’s 
a letter somewhere down in my safe pocket for you, which 

268 


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has cost me trouble enough. Phoo ! where is it now? — it’s 
from Miss Nugent,” said he, holding up the letter. The 
direction to Grosvenor Square, London, had been scratched 
out; and it had been re-directed by Sir Terence to the 
Lord Viscount Colambre, at Sir James Brooke’s, Bart., 
Brookwood, Huntingdonshire, or elsewhere, with speed. 
“But the more haste the worse speed ; for away it went to 
Brookwood, Huntingdonshire, where I knew, if anywhere, 
you was to be found ; but, as fate and the post would have 
it, there the letter went coursing after you, while you were 
running round, and back and forwards, and everywhere, I 
understand, to Toddrington and Wrestham, and where 
not, through all them English places, where there’s no 
cross-post ; so I took it for granted that it found its way 
to the dead-letter office, or was sticking up across a pane 
in the d — d postmaster’s window at Huntingdon, for the 
whole town to see, and it a love-letter, and some puppy to 
claim it, under false pretence ; and you all the time with- 
out it, and it might breed a coolness betwixt you and Miss 
Nugent.” 

“But, my dear Sir Terence, give me the letter now you 
have me.” 

“Oh, my dear lord, if you knew what a race I have had, 
missing you here by five minutes, and there by five seconds 
— but I have you at last, and you have it — and I’m paid 
this minute for all I liquidated of my substance, by the 
pleasure I have in seeing you crack the seal and read it. 
But take care you don’t tumble over the orange woman — 
orange barrows are a great nuisance, when one’s studying 
a letter in the streets of London or the metropolis. But 
never heed; stick to my arm, and I ’ll guide you, like a 
blind man, safe through the thick of them.” 

Miss Nugent’s letter, which Lord Colambre read in spite 
of the jostling of passengers, and the incessant talking of 
Sir Terence, was as follows: 

Let me not be the cause of banishing you from your home 
and your country, where you would do so much good, and 
make so many happy. Let me not be the cause of your 

269 


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breaking your promise to your mother; of your disappointing 
my dear aunt, so cruelly, who has complied with all our wishes, 
and who sacrifices, to oblige us, her favourite tastes. How 
could she ever be happy in Ireland — how could Clonbrony 
Castle be a home to her, without her son? If you take away all 
she had of amusement and pleasure^ as it is called, are not you 
bound to give her, in their stead, that domestic happiness, 
which she can enjoy only with you, and by your means ? If, in- 
stead of living with her, you go into the army, she will be in 
daily, nightly anxiety and alarm about you; and her son will, 
instead of being a comfort, be a source of torment to her. 

I will hope that you will do now, as you have always hitherto 
done, on every occasion where I have seen you act, what is 
right, and just, and kind. Come here on the day you promised 
my aunt you would ; before that time I shall be in Cambridge- 
shire, with my friend Lady Berryl; she is so good as to come to 
Buxton for me — I shall remain with her, instead of returning to 

Ireland. I have explained my reasons to my dear aunt 

Could I have any concealment from her, to whom, from my 
earliest childhood, I owe everything that kindness and affection 
could give ? She is satisfied — she consents to my living hence- 
forward with Lady Berryl. Let me have the pleasure of seeing, 
by your conduct, that you approve of mine. — Your affectionate 
cousin and friend, Grace Nugent. 

This letter, as may be imagined by those who, like him, 
are capable of feeling honourable and generous conduct, 
gave our hero exquisite pleasure. Poor, good-natured Sir 
Terence O’Fay enjoyed his lordship’s delight; and forgot 
himself so completely, that he never even inquired whether 
Lord Colambre had thought of an affair on which he had 
spoken to him some time before, and which materially con- 
cerned Sir Terence’s interest. The next morning, when 
the carriage was at the door, and Sir Terence was just tak- 
ing leave of his friend Lord Clonbrony, and actually in 
tears, wishing them all manner of happiness, though he 
said there was none left now in London, or the wide world, 
even, for him— Lord Colambre went up to him, and said, 
“Sir Terence, you have never inquired whether I have 
done your business? 


270 


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“Oh, my dear, I’m not thinking of that now — time 
enough by the post — I can write after you ; but my 
thoughts won’t turn for me to business now — no matter.’’ 

“Your business is done,’’ replied Lord Colambre. 

“Then I wonder how you could think of it, with all you 
had upon your mind and heart. When anything’s upon 
my heart, good morning to my head, it’s not worth a 
lemon. Good-bye to you, and thank you kindly, and all 
happiness attend you.’’ 

“Good-bye to you. Sir Terence O’Fay,’’ said Lord 
Clonbrony; “and, since it’s so ordered, I must live with- 
out you.’’ 

“Oh! you’ll live better without me, my lord; I am not 
a good liver, I know, nor the best of all companions for a 
nobleman, young or old; and now you’ll be rich, and not 
put to your shifts and your wits, what would I have to do 
for you? — Sir Terence O’Fay, you know, was only the poor 
nobleman s friend^ and you’ll never want to call upon him 
again, thanks to your jewel, your Pitt’s-di’mond of a son 
there. So we part here, and depend upon it you’re better 
without me — that’s all my comfort, or my heart would 
break. • The carriage is waiting this long time, and this 
young lover’s itching to be off. God bless you both! — 
that’s my last word.’’ 

They called in Red Lion Square, punctual to the mo- 
ment, on old Mr. Reynolds, but his window-shutters were 
shut ; he had been seized in the night with a violent fit of 
the gout, which, as he said, held him fast by the leg. “But 
here,’’ said he, giving Lord Colambre a letter, “here’s what 
will do your business without me. Take this written 
acknowledgment I have penned for you, and give my 
grand-daughter her father’s letter to read — it would touch 
a heart of stone — touched mine — wish I could drag the 
mother back out of her grave, to do her justice — all one 
now. You see at last I’m not a suspicious rascal, how- 
ever, for I don’t suspect you of palming a false grand- 
daughter upon me.’’ 

“Will you,’’ said Lord Colambre, “give your grand- 
daughter leave to come up to town to you, sir? You 

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would satisfy yourself, at least, as to what resemblance she 
may bear to her father; Miss Reynolds will come instantly, 
and she will nurse you.” 

“No, no; I won’t have her come. If she comes, I won’t 

see her — shan’t begin by nursing me not selfish. As 

soon as I get rid of this gout, I shall be my own man, and 
young again, and I’ll soon be after you across the sea, that 
shan’t stop me; I’ll come to — what’s the name of your 
place in Ireland? — and see what likeness I can find to 
her poor father in this grand-daughter of mine, that you 
puffed so finely yesterday. And let me see whether she 
will wheedle me as finely as Mrs. Petito would. Don’t get 
ready your marriage settlements, do you hear, till you have 
seen my will, which I shall sign at — what’s the name of 
your place? Write it down there; there’s pen and ink; 
and leave me, for the twinge is coming, and I shall roar.” 

‘‘Will you permit me, sir, to leave my own servant with 
you to take care of you? I can answer for his attention 
and fidelity.” 

“Let me see his face, and I’ll tell you.” Lord Colam- 
bre’s servant was summoned. 

“Yes, I like his face. God bless you! — Leave me.” 

Lord Colambre gave his servant a charge to bear with 
Mr. Reynolds’s rough manner and temper, and to pay the 
poor old gentleman every possible attention. Then our 
hero proceeded with his father on his journey, and on this 
journey nothing happened worthy of note. On his first 
perusal of the letter from Grace, Lord Colambre had feared 
that she would have left Buxton with Lady Berryl before 
he could reach it; but, upon recollection, he hoped that 
the few lines he had written, addressed to his mother and 
Miss Nugent, with the assurance that he should be with 
them on Wednesday, would be sufficient to show her that 
some great change had happened, and consequently suffi- 
cient to prevent her from quitting her aunt, till she could 
know whether such a separation would be necessary. He 
argued wisely, more wisely than Grace had reasoned ; for, 
notwithstanding this note, she would have left Buxton be- 
fore his arrival, but for Lady Berryl’s strength of mind, 

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and positive determination not to set out with her till Lord 
Colambre should arrive to explain. In the interval, poor 
Grace was, indeed, in an anxious state of suspense; and 
her uncertainty, whether she was doing right or wrong, by 
staying to see Lord Colambre, tormented her most. 

“My dear, you cannot help yourself; be quiet,” said 
Lady Berryl; “I will take the whole upon my conscience; 
and I hope my conscience may never have anything worse 
to answer for.” 

Grace was the first person who, from her window, saw 
Lord Colambre, the instant the carriage drove to the door. 
She ran to her friend Lady Berryl’s apartment — 

“He is come! — Now, take me away! ” 

“Not yet, my sweet friend! Lie down upon this sofa, 
if you please; and keep yourself tranquil, whilst I go and 
see what you ought to do ; and depend upon me for a true 
friend, in whose mind, as in your own, duty is the first 
object.” 

“I depend on you entirely,” said Grace, sinking down 
on the sofa; “and you see I obey you! ” 

“Many thanks to you for lying down, when you canT 
stand.” 

Lady Berryl went to Lady Clonbrony’s apartment ; she 
was met by Sir Arthur. 

“Come, my love! come quick! — Lord Colambre is 
arrived.” 

“I know it; and does he go to Ireland? Speak in- 
stantly, that I may tell Grace Nugent.” 

“You can tell her nothing yet, my love; for we know 
nothing. Lord Colambre will not say a word till you 
come ; but I know, by his countenance, that he has good 
and extraordinary news.” 

They passed rapidly along the passage to Lady Clon- 
brony’s room. 

“Oh, my dear, dear Lady Berryl, come! or I shall die 
with impatience,” cried Lady Clonbrony, in a voice and 
manner between laughing and crying. “There, now you 
have congratulated, are very happy, and very glad, and 
all that — now, for mercy's sake, sit down, Lord Clonbrony ! 

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for Heaven's sake, sit down — beside me here — or anywhere ! 
Now, Colambre, begin; and tell us all at once! " 

But as nothing is so tedious as a twice-told tale. Lord 
Colambre's narrative need not here be repeated. He began 
with Count O’PIalloran’s visit, immediately after Lady 
Clonbrony had left London ; and went through the history 
of the discovery that Captain Reynolds was the husband 
of Miss St. Omar, and the father of Grace; the dying 
acknowledgment of his marriage; the packet delivered by 
Count O’Halloran to the careless ambassador — how re- 
covered, by the assistance of his executor. Sir James 
Brooke; the travels from Wrestham to Toddrington, and 
thence to Red Lion Square ; the interview with old Rey- 
nolds, and its final result ; all was related as succinctly as 
the impatient curiosity of Lord Colambre’s auditors could 
desire. 

“Oh, wonder upon wonder! and joy upon joy!" cried 
Lady Clonbrony. “So my darling Grace is as legitimate 
as I am, and an heiress after all. Where is she? where is 
she? In your room. Lady Berryl? — Oh, Colambre! why 
wouldn’t you let her be by? — Lady Berryl, do you know, 
he would not let me send for her, though she was the per- 
son of all others most concerned! " 

“For that very reason, ma’am ; and that Lord Colambre 
was quite right, I am sure you must be sensible, when you 
recollect, that Grace has no idea that she is not the daughter 
of Mr. Nugent; she has no suspicion that the breath of 
blame ever lighted upon her mother. This part of the 
story cannot be announced to her with too much caution ; 
and, indeed, her mind has been so much harassed and agi- 
tated, and she is at present so far from strong, that great 
delicacy ’’ 

“True! very true. Lady Berryl," interrupted Lady 
Clonbrony; “and I’ll be as delicate as you please about it 
afterwards ; but, in the first and foremost place, I must tell 
her the best part of the story — that she’s an heiress, 
madam, never killed anybody! ’’ So, darting through all 
opposition. Lady Clonbrony made her way into the room 
where Grace was lying— “Yes, get up! get up! my own 

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Grace, and be surprised — well you may! — you are an 
heiress, after all.” 

“Am I, my dear aunt?” said Grace. 

“True, as Tm Lady Clonbrony — and a very great heiress 
— and no more Colambre’s cousin than Lady Berryl here. 
So now begin and love him as fast as you please — I give 
my consent — and here he is.” 

Lady Clonbrony turned to her son, who just appeared 
at the door. 

“Oh, mother! what have you done?” 

“What have I done?” cried Lady Clonbrony, following 
her son’s eyes: — “Lord bless me! — Grace fainted dead — 
Lady Berryl? Oh, what have I done? My dear Lady 
Berryl, what shall we do? ” 

“There! her colour’s coming again,” said Lord Clon- 
brony; “come away, my dear Lady Clonbrony, for the 
present, and so will I — though I long to talk to the darling 
girl myself; but she is not equal to it yet.” 

When Grace came to herself, she first saw Lady Berryl 
leaning over her, and, raising herself a little, she said — 

“What has happened? — I don’t know yet — I don’t know 
whether I am happy or not.” 

Then seeing Lord Colambre, she sat quite upright. 

“You received my letter, cousin, I hope? — Do you go 
to Ireland with my aunt?” 

“Yes; and with you, I hope, my beloved friend,” said 
Colambre; “you once assured me that I had such a share 
of your esteem and affection, that the idea of my accom- 
panying you to Ireland was not disagreeable to you; you 
flattered me that I formed part of your agreeable associa- 
tions with home.” 

“Yes — sit down by me, won’t you, my dear Lady 
Berryl — but then I considered you as my cousin. Lord 
Colambre, and I thought you felt the same towards me; 
but now ” 

“But now, my charming Grace,” said Lord Colambre, 
kneeling beside her, and taking her hand, “no invincible 
obstacle opposes my passion — no invincible obstacle, did 
I say? let me hope that I may say no obstacle, but what 

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depends on the change in the nature of your sentimerits. 
You heard my mother's consent; you saw her joy." 

"I scarcely knew what I heard or saw," said Grace, 
blushing deeply, ‘‘or what I now see and hear; but of this 
I feel secure, before I comprehend the mystery, before you 
explain to me the causes of your — change of conduct, that 
you have never been actuated by caprice, but governed by 
wise and honourable motives. As to my going to Ireland, 
or remaining with Lady Berryl, she has heard all the cir- 
cumstances — she is my friend and yours — a better friend 
cannot be ; to her I appeal — she will decide for me what I 
ought to do ; she promised to take me from hence instantly, 
if I ought to go." 

"I did; and I would do so without hesitation, if any 
duty or any prudence required it. But, after having heard 
all the circumstances, I can only tell you that I willingly 
resign the pleasure of your company." 

“But tell her, my dear Lady Berryl," said Lord Co- 
lambre, “excellent friend as you are — explain to her you 
can, better than any of us, all that is to be known ; let her 
know my whole conduct, and then let her decide for her- 
self, and I shall submit to her decision. It is difficult, my 
dear Grace, to restrain the expression of love, of passion, 
such as I feel; but I have some power over myself — you 
know it — and this I can promise you, that your affections 
shall be free as air — that no wishes of friends, no interfer- 
ence, nothing but your own unbiassed choice will I allow, if 
my life depended upon it, to operate in my favour. Be as- 
sured, my dearest Grace," added he, smiling as he retired, 
“you shall have time to know whether you are happy or 
not." 

The moment he had left the room, she threw herself 
into the arms of her friend, and her heart, oppressed with 
various feelings, was relieved by tears — a species of relief 
to which she was not habituated. 

“I am happy," said she; “but what was the invincible 
obstacle ? —what was the meaning of my aunt’s words? — 
and what was the cause of her joy? Explain all this to 
me, my dear friend; for I am still as if I were in a dream." 

276 



‘ “ But now, my charming Grace,” said Lord Colambre, 
kneeling beside her.’ 




% 


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With all the delicacy which Lady Clonbrony deemed 
superfluous Lady Berryl explained. Nothing could sur- 
pass the astonishment of Grace, on first learning that Mr. 
Nugent was not her father. When she was told of the 
stigma that had been cast on her birth ; the suspicions, 
the disgrace, to which her mother had been subjected for 
so many years — that mother, whom she had so loved and 
respected ; who had, with such care, instilled into the mind 
of her daughter the principles of virtue and religion ; that 
mother whom Grace had always seen the example of every 
virtue she taught ; on whom her daughter never suspected 
that the touch of blame, the breath of scandal, could rest 
— Grace could express her sensations only by repeating, in 
tones of astonishment, pathos, indignation — “My mother! 
— my mother! — my mother! “ 

For some time she was incapable of attending to any 
other idea, or of feeling any other sensations. When her 
mind was able to admit the thought, her friend soothed 
her, by recalling the expressions of Lord Colambre’s love 
— the struggle by which he had been agitated, when he 
fancied a union with her opposed by an invincible 
obstacle. 

Grace sighed, and acknowledged that, in prudence, it 
ought to have been an invincible obstacle — she admired the 
firmness of his decision, the honour with which he had 
acted towards her. One moment she exclaimed, “Then, 
if I had been the daughter of a mother who had conducted 
herself ill, he never would have trusted me! “ 

The next moment she recollected, with pleasure, the joy 
she had just seen in his eyes — the affection, the passion, 
that spoke in every word and look ; then dwelt upon the 
sober certainty, that all obstacles were removed. 

“And no duty opposes my loving him! And my aunt 
wishes it ! my kind aunt ! And I may think of him. — You, 
my best friend, would not assure me of this if you were 
not certain of the truth. — Oh, how can I thank you for all 
your kindness, and for that best of all kindness, sympathy. 
You see, your calmness, your strength of mind supports 
and tranquillises me. I would rather have heard all I have 

277 


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just learnt from you than from any other person living. I 
could not have borne it from any one else. No one else 
knows my mind so perfectly — yet my aunt is very good, — 
and my dear uncle! should not I go to him? — But he is 
not my uncle, she is not my aunt. I cannot bring myself 
to think that they are not my relations, and that I am no- 
thing to them.” 

‘‘You may be everything to them, my dear Grace,” said 
Lady Berryl; “whenever you please, you may be their 
daughter.” 

Grace blushed, and smiled, and sighed, and was con- 
soled. But then she recollected her new relation Mr. 
Reynolds, her grandfather, whom she had never seen, who 
had for years disowned her — treated her mother with in- 
justice. She could scarcely think of him with complaisancy ; 
yet, when his age, his sufferings, his desolate state, were 
represented, she pitied him; and, faithful to her strong 
sense of duty, would have gone instantly to offer him 
every assistance and attention in her power. Lady Berryl 
assured her that Mr. Reynolds had positively forbidden 
her going to him ; and that he had assured Lord Colambre 
he would not see her if she went to him. After such rapid 
and varied emotions, poor Grace desired repose, and her 
friend took care that it should be secured to her for the re- 
mainder of the day. 

In the meantime. Lord Clonbrony had kindly and ju- 
diciously employed his lady in a discussion about certain 
velvet furniture, which Grace had painted for the drawing- 
room at Clonbrony Castle. 

In Lady Clonbrony's mind, as in some bad paintings, 
there was no keeping; all objects, great and small, were 
upon the same level. 

The moment her son entered the room, her ladyship ex- 
claimed — 

“Everything pleasant at once! Here’s your father tells 
me, Grace’s velvet furniture’s all packed; really, Soho’s 
the best man in the world of his kind, and the cleverest — 
and so, after all, my dear Colambre, as I always hoped 
and prophesied, at last you will marry an heiress.” 

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^*And Terry,” said Lord Clonbrony, “will win his wager 
from Mordicai.” 

“Terry!” repeated Lady Clonbrony, “that odious 
Terry! — I hope, my lord, that he is not to be one of my 
comforts in Ireland.” 

“No, my dear mother; he is much better provided for 
than we could have expected. One of my father’s first 
objects was to prevent him from being any encumbrance 
to you. We consulted him as to the means of making him 
happy; and the knight acknowledged that he had long 
been casting a sheep’s eye at a little snug place, that will 
soon be open, in his native country — the chair of assistant 
barrister at the sessions. ‘Assistant barrister!’ said my 
father; ‘but, my dear Terry, you have all your life been 
evading the laws, and very frequently breaking the peace ; 
do you think this has qualified you peculiarly for being a 
guardian of the laws?’ Sir Terence replied, ‘Yes, sure; 
set a thief to catch a thief is no bad maxim. And did not 
Mr. Colquhoun, the Scotchman, get himself made a great 
justice, by his making all the world as wise as himself, 
about thieves of all sorts, by land and by water, and in the 
air too, where he detected the mud-larks? — And is not 
Barrington chief-justice of Botany Bay?’ 

“My father now began to be seriously alarmed, lest Sir 
Terence should insist upon his using his interest to make 
him an assistant barrister. He was not aware that five 
years’ practice at the bar was a necessary accomplishment 
for this office; when, fortunately for all parties, my good 
friend, Count O’Halloran, helped us out of the difficulty, 
by starting an idea full of practical justice. A literary 
friend of the count’s had been for some time promised a 
lucrative situation under Government ; but, unfortunately, 
he was a man of so much merit and ability, that they could 
not find employment for him at home, and they gave him 
a commission, I should rather say a contract, abroad, for 
supplying the army with Hungarian horses. Now the 
gentleman had not the slightest skill in horse-flesh ; and, 
as Sir Terence is a complete jockey ^ the count observed 
that he would be the best possible deputy for his literary 

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friend. We warranted him to be a thoroughgoing friend ; 
and I do think the coalition will be well for both parties. 
The count has settled it all, and I left Sir Terence com- 
fortably provided for, out of your way, my dear mother, 
and as happy as he could be, when parting from my 
father.’' 

Lord Colambre was assiduous in engaging his mother’s 
attention upon any subject which could for the present 
draw her thoughts away from her young friend; but, at 
every pause in the conversation, her ladyship repeated, 
"So Grace is an heiress, after all — so, after all, they know 
they are not cousins! Well! I prefer Grace, a thousand 
times over, to any other heiress in England. No obstacle, 
no objection. They have my consent. I always prophe- 
sied Colambre would marry an heiress ; but why not marry 
directly? ” 

Her ardour and impatience to hurry things forward 
seemed now likely to retard the accomplishment of her 
own wishes; and Lord Clonbrony, who understood rather 
more of the passion of love than his lady ever had felt or 
understood, saw the agony into which she threw her son, 
and felt for his darling Grace. With a degree of delicacy 
and address of which few would have supposed Lord Clon- 
brony capable, his lordship co-operated with his son in en- 
deavours to keep Lady Clonbrony quiet, and to suppress 
the hourly thanksgivings of Grace’s turning out an heiress. 
On one point, however, she vowed she would not be over- 
ruled — she would have a splendid wedding at Clonbrony 
Castle, such as should become an heir and heiress ; and the 
wedding, she hoped, would be immediately on their return 
to Ireland ; she should announce the thing to her friends 
directly on her arrival at Clonbrony Castle. 

"My dear,’’ said Lord Clonbrony, "we must wait, in 
the first place, the pleasure of old Mr. Reynolds’s fit of 
the gout.’’ 

"Why, that’s true, because of his will,” said her lady- 
ship; "but a will’s soon made, is not it? That can’t be 
much delay.” 

"And then there must be settlements,” said Lord Clon- 
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brony ; ‘‘they take time. Lovers, like all the rest of man- 
kind, must submit to the law's delay. In the meantime, 
my dear, as these Buxton baths agree with you so well, 
and as Grace does not seem to be over and above strong 
for travelling a long journey, and as there are many curious 
and beautiful scenes of nature here in Derbyshire — Mat- 
lock, and the wonders of the Peak, and so on — which the 
young people would be glad to see together, and may not 
have another opportunity soon — why not rest ourselves a 
little? For another reason, too," continued his lordship, 
bringing together as many arguments as he could — for he 
had often found, that though Lady Clonbrony was a match 
for any single argument, her understanding could be easily 
overpowered by a number, of whatever sort — "besides, my 
dear, here’s Sir Arthur and Lady Berryl come to Buxton 
on purpose to meet us; and we owe them some compli- 
ment, and something more than compliment, I think; so I 
don’t see why we should be in a hurry to leave them, or 
quit Buxton — a few weeks sooner or later can’t signify — 
and Clonbrony Castle will be getting all the while into bet- 
ter order for us. Burke is gone down there; and if we 
stay here quietly, there will be time for the velvet furniture 
to get there before us, and to be unpacked, and up in the 
drawing-room.’’ 

"That’s true, my lord," said Lady Clonbrony; "and 
there is a great deal of reason in all you say — so I second 
that motion, as Colambre, I see, subscribes to it." 

They stayed some time in Derbyshire, and every day 
Lord Clonbrony proposed some pleasant excursion, and 
contrived that the young people should be left to them- 
selves, as Mrs. Broadhurst used so strenuously to advise; 
the recollection of whose authoritative maxims fortunately 
still operated upon Lady Clonbrony, to the great ease and 
advantage of the lovers. 

Happy as a lover, a friend, a son; happy in the con- 
sciousness of having restored a father to respectability, and 
persuaded a mother to quit the feverish joys of fashion for 
the pleasures of domestic life ; happy in the hope of win- 
ning the whole heart of the woman he loved, and whose 

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esteem, he knew, he possessed and deserved ; happy in de- 
veloping every day, every hour, fresh charm in his destined 
bride — we leave our hero, returning to his native country. 

And we leave him with the reasonable expectation that 
he will support through life the promise of his early char- 
acter; that his patriotic views will extend with his power 
to carry wishes into action; that his attachment to his 
warm-hearted countrymen will still increase upon further 
acquaintance; and that he will long diffuse happiness 
through the wide circle, which is peculiarly subject to the 
influence and example of a great resident Irish proprietor. 

Letter from Larry to his brother, Pat Brady, at Mr. 

Mordicai’s, coachmaker, London. 

My dear Brother, 

Yours of the i6th, inclosing the five pound note for my 
father, came safe to hand Monday last; and with his thanks 
and blessing to you, he commends it to you herewith inclosed 
back again, on account of his being in no immediate necessity, 
nor likelihood to want in future, as you shall hear forthwith; 
but wants you over with all speed, and the note will answer for 
travelling charges; for we can’t enjoy the luck it has pleased 
God to give us without yees : put the rest in your pocket, and 
read it when you’ve time. 

Old Nick’s gone, and St. Dennis along with him, to the place 
he come from — praise be to God! The ould lord has found him 
out in his tricks; and I helped him to that, through the young 
lord that I driv, as I informed you in my last, when he was a 
Welchman, which was the best turn ever I did, though I did not 
know it no more than Adam that time. So ould Nick’s turned 
out of the agency clean and clear; and the day after it was 
known, there was surprising great joy through the whole coun- 
try; not surprising either, but just what you might, knowing 
him, r^sonably expect. He (that is, old Nick and St. Dennis) 
would have been burnt that night — I mane^ in effigy^ through the 
town of Clonbrony, but that the new man, Mr. Burke, come 
down that day too soon to stop it, and said, “ it was not becom- 
ing to trample on the fallen,’’ or something that way, that put 
an end to it; and though it was a great disappointment to many, 
and to me in particular, I could not but like the jantleman the 

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better for it anyhow. They say, he is a very good jantleman, 
and as unlike old Nick or the saint as can be; and takes no 
duty fowl, nor glove, nor sealing-money; nor asks duty work 
nor duty turf. Well, when I was disappointed of the effigy^ I 
comforted myself by making a bonfire of old Nick’s big rick of 
duty turf, which, by great luck, was out in the road, away from 
all dwelling-house, or thatch, or yards, to take fire; so no danger 
in life or objection. And such another blaze! I wished you ’d 
seed it — and all the men, women, and children in the town and 
country, far and near, gathered round it, shouting and dancing 
like mad! — and it was light as day quite across the bog, as far 
as Bartley Finnigan’s house. And I heard after, they seen it 
from all parts of the three counties, and they thought it was St. 
John’s Eve in a mistake — or couldn’t make out what it was; 
but all took it in good part, for a good sign, and were in great 
joy. As for St. Dennis and ould Nick, an attorney had his foot 
upon ’em, with an habere a latitat, and three executions hang- 
ing over ’em; and there’s the end of rogues! and a great ex- 
ample in the country. And — no more about it; for I can’t be 
wasting more ink upon them that don’t desarve it at my hands, 
when I want it for them that do, you shall see. So some weeks 
past, and there was great cleaning at Clonbrony Castle, and in 
the town of Clonbrony; and the new agent’s smart and clever; 
and he had the glaziers, and the painters, and the slaters up and 
down in the' town wherever wanted; and you wouldn’t know it 
again. Thinks I, this is no bad sign! Now, cock up your ears, 
Pat! for the great news is coming, and the good. The master’s 
come home — long life to him! — and family come home yester- 
day, all entirely! The ould lord and the young lord (ay, there’s 
the man, Paddy!), and my lady, and Miss Nugent. And I driv 
Miss Nugent’s maid, that maid that was, and another; so I had 
the luck to be in it along wid ’em, and see all, from first to last. 
And first, I must tell you, my young Lord Colambre remembered 
and noticed me the minute he lit at our inn, and condescended 
to beckon at me out of the yard to him, and axed me — “ Friend 
Larry,” says he, ” did you keep your promise ? ” — ” My oath 
again’ the whisky, is it ? ” says I. ” My Lord, I surely did,” 
said I ; which was true, as all the country knows I never tasted 
a drop since. “ And I’m proud to see your honour, my lord, 
as good as your word too, and back again among us.” So then 
there was a call for the horses ; and no more at that time passed 


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betwix* my young lord and me, but that he pointed me out to 
the ould one, as I went off. I noticed and thanked him for it in 
my heart, though I did not know all the good was to come of it. 
Well, no more of myself, for the present. 

Ogh, it’s I driv ’em well; and we all got to the great gate of 
the park before sunset, and as fine an evening as ever you see; 
with the sun shining on the tops of the trees, as the ladies no- 
ticed; the leaves changed, but not dropped, though so late in 
the season. I believe the leaves knew what they were about, 
and kept on, on purpose to welcome them; and the birds were 
singing, and I stopped whistling, that they might hear them; but 
sorrow bit could they hear when they got to the park gate, for 
there was such a crowd, and such a shout, as you never see — 
and they had the horses off every carriage entirely, and drew 
’em home, with blessings, through the park. And, God bless 
’em! when they got out, they didn’t go shut themselves up in 
the great drawing-room, but went straight out to the //rrass, to 
satisfy the eyes and hearts that followed them. My lady la7iing 
on my young lord, and Miss Grace Nugent that was, the beauti- 
fullest angel that ever you set eyes on, with the finest com- 
plexion and sweetest of smiles, laning upon the ould lord’s arm, 
who had his hat off, bowing to all, and noticing the old tenants 
as he passed by name. Oh, there was great gladness and tears 
in the midst; for joy I could scarce keep from myself. 

After a turn or two upon the /zVrass, my Lord Colambre quit 
his mother’s arm for a minute, and he come to the edge of the 
slope, and looked down and through all the crowd for some 
one. 

“ Is it the widow O’Neill, my lord ? ” says I; “ she’s yonder, 
with the spectacles on her nose, betwixt her son and daughter, 
as usual.” 

Then my lord beckoned, and they did not know which of the 
tree would stir; and then he gave tree beckons with his own 
finger, and they all tree came fast enough to the bottom of the 
slope forenent my lord; and he went down and helped the widow 
up (Oh, he’s the true jantleman), and brought ’em all tree upon 
the //rrass, to my lady and Miss Nugent ; and I was up close after, 
that I might hear, which wasn’t manners, but I couldn’t help it. 
So what he said I don’t well know, for I could not get near 
enough, after all. But I saw my lady smile very kind, and take 
the wMow O’Neill by the hand, and then my Lord Colambre 

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Produced Grace to Miss Nugent, and there was the word name- 
sake^ and something about a check curtains; but, whatever it 
was, they was all greatly pleased; then my Lord Colambre 
turned and looked for Brian, who had fell back, and took him 
with some commendation to my lord his father. And my lord 
the master said, which I didn’t know till after, that they should 
have their house and farm at the ould rent; and at the surprise, 
the widow dropped down dead ; and there was a cry as for ten 
herrings. “ Be qui’te,” says I, “ she’s only kilt for joy ”; and 
I went and lift her up, for her son had no more strength that 
minute than the child new born; and Grace trembled like a leaf, 
as white as the sheet, but not long, for the mother came to, and 
was as well as ever when I brought some water, which Miss 
Nugent handed to her with her own hand. 

“ That was always pretty and good,” said the widow, laying 
her hand upon Miss Nugent, ” and kind and good to me and 
mine.” 

That minute there was music from below. The blind harper, 
O’Neill, with his harp, that struck up ” Gracey Nugent.” 

And that finished, and my Lord Colambre smiling, with the 
tears standing in his eyes too, and the ould lord quite wiping 
his, I ran to the tirxdiSS brink to bid O’Neill play it again; but 
as I run, I thought I heard a voice call Larry. 

” Who calls Larry ? ” says I. 

” My Lord Colambre calls you, Larry,” says all at once; and 
four takes me by the shoulders and spins me round. ” There’s 
my young lord calling you, Larry — run for your life.” 

So I run back for my life, and walked respectful, with my hat 
in my hand, when I got near. 

” Put on your hat, my father desires it,” says my Lord Co- 
lambre. The ould lord made a sign to that purpose, but was 
too full to speak. ‘‘Where’s your father?” continues my 
young lord. — ‘‘ He’s very ould, my lord,” says I. “ I didn’t 
ax you how ould he was,” says he; ” but where is he ? ” — 
*‘ He’s behind the crowd below, on account of his infirmities; 
he couldn’t walk so fast as the rest, my lord,” says I; ‘‘but his 
heart is with you, if not his body.” ‘T must have his body too, 
so bring him bodily before us; and this shall be your warrant 
for so doing,” said my lord, joking; for he knows the natur of 
us, Paddy, and how we love a joke in our hearts, as well as if 
he had lived all his life in Ireland ; and by the same token will, 

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for that rason^ do what he pleases with us, and more maybe than 
a man twice as good, that never would smile on us. 

But I’m telling you of my father. “ I’ve a warrant for you, 
father,” says I; ” and must have you bodily before the justice, 
and my lord chief-justice.” So he changed colour a bit at first; 
but he saw me smile. ‘ ‘ And I’ve done no sin, ’ ’ said he ; ‘ ‘ and, 
Larry, you may lead me now, as you led me all my life.” 

And up the slope he went with me as light as fifteen; and, 
when we got up, my Lord Clonbrony said, ” I am sorry an old 
tenant, and a good old tenant, as I hear you were, should have 
been turned out of your farm.” 

” Don’t fret, it’s no great matter, my lord,” said my father. 
” I shall be soon out of the way; but if you would be so kind to 
speak a word for my boy here, and that I could afford, while 
the life is in me, bring my other boy back out of banish- 
ment ’ ’ 

” Then,” says my Lord Clonbrony, ” I’ll give you and your 
sons three lives, or thirty-one years, from this day, of your 
former farm. Return to it when you please.” ” And,” added 
my Lord Colambre, ” the flaggers, I hope, will be soon 
banished.” Oh, how could I thank him — not a word could I 
proffer — but I know I clasped my two hands, and prayed for 
him inwardly. And my father was dropping down on his knees, 
but the master would not let him; and obsarved^ that posture 
should only be for his God. And, sure enough, in that pos- 
ture, when he was out of sight, we did pray for him that night, 
and will all our days. 

But, before we quit his presence, he called me back, and bid 
me write to my brother, and bring you back, if you’ve no ob- 
jections, to your own country. 

So come, my dear Pat, and make no delay, for joy’s not joy 
compete till you’re in it — my father sends his blessing, and 
Peggy her love. The family entirely is to settle for good in 
Ireland, and there was in the castle yard last night a bonfire 
made by my lord’s orders of the old yellow damask furniture, to 
plase my lady, my lord says. And the drawing-room, the butler 
was telling me, is new hung; and the chairs with velvet as white 
as snow, and shaded over with natural flowers, by Miss Nugent. 
Oh! how I hope what I guess will come true, and I’ve rason to 
believe it will, for I dreamt in my bed last night it did. But 
keep yourself to yourself — that Miss Nugent (who is no more 

286 


THE ABSENTEE 


Miss Nugent, they say, but Miss Reynolds, and has a new-found 
grandfather, and is a big heiress, which she did not want in my 
eyes, nor in my young lord’s). I’ve a notion will be sometime, 
and maybe sooner than is expected, my Lady Viscountess Co- 
lambre — so haste to the wedding. And there’s another thing: 
they say the rich ould grandfather’s coming over; — and another 
thing, Pat, you would not be out of the fashion — and you see 
it’s growing the fashion not to be an Absentee. — Your loving 
brother, Larry Brady. 


THE END, 


287 































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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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